The Inheritors
by Lonely Jew
Summary: The boys have inherited magical powers, for the purpose to use them for 'the greater good'. But what if Kyle's ethics stand in the way of using such 'wonderful' gifts? Props to Charmed for providing some of the powers.
1. Chapter 1

When Kyle Broflovski exited his mother's car that morning, it became suddenly obvious to him that the day was carrying an unusual lack of wind. Not that he was unthankful, but he had become quite used to having to grab his hat every time he stepped outside . . . A little feature that had taken _four years _to happen, almost the entire span of his life in the little town of South Park, Colorado. Today the snow was falling softly onto the ground. Almost too gently, like a man who strokes a cat just to get in close enough to ring its neck.

South Park Elementary loomed before him, ominous after the cheers of the weekend. He was stepping away from his mother's car, just lowering his arm from the falseness of the wave, when he heard his name from across the yard.

"Kyle! Hey, Kyle!"

He whipped his head around. Behind him was the drone of the car pulling off, the smell of the thin exhaust. It left him standing in the gentle rain of the snow, looking to and fro in quick snaps of his neck.

"Hello?" He asked, turning all the way around to look behind him.

"Over _here, _Kyle! _God, _you're such a stupid Jew!"

Pricks of anger traveled his spine when he recognized the voice. Even if he _hadn't _have recognized the voice, he _still _would have known who it was . . . It was all in the comment conveniently tacked on at the end. He turned back around. The voice was coming from his far right, behind the left wing of the school.

"Yeah! Right over here! _God, _you're such a--"

"Shut the fuck up, fatass! I see you!"

And, suddenly, he _could _see him. In all of his fat and obnoxious glory, he was there, leaning out from behind the brick siding of the school. He was dressed as always, in the stocking hat and bright red coat. The yellow mittens were no surprise, either.

It was the look of concern on his face that did Kyle in.

"Well are you going to come on or not? We haven't got all day!" The chubby boy called out.

Kyle began toward him, surprised to find himself running instead of walking. Surprising it was, but he wasn't able to stop. The urgency in Cartman's face wasn't the only evidence, now. His voice also sounded strict and tense.

"I'm coming! But this better be good, because school's about to start, and--"

"Yes, yes, Kyle. We all know you're a dork, and that the sight of an 'A' on your work gives you intense sexual pleasure. For this reason, we are willing to work with you. We wouldn't want you to get too starved,"

Kyle, who had made his way from across the yard to Cartman, flipped him the bird. He would have added voice to the insult, but his chest was heaving too badly. The chill in the air had gotten inside his lungs and made it feel as if they were lined with ice.

"So . . . What is it?" He panted, between breaths.

Cartman grabbed his wrist. Before Kyle could protest he was being drug behind the school, his shoes leaving deep trails in the snow.

"Let Stan tell you. You've always understood each other so well before,"

The remark was spoken with sharp edges, and a wee bit of sarcasm. Once again, Kyle would have let his mouth fly, but it was too late for that. One moment he was being drug in the snow, fighting to catch his footing and pull away . . . And the next he was standing in front of his best friend in the entire world, still rasping to catch his breath. It flared out in front of him in little clouds of steam.

Kenny was there too, but Kyle barely noticed him. Stan was wearing an expression such as he had never seen before, and it deserved the full extent of his attention. Cartman had waddled up beside him, and was staring back at Kyle just as gravely. He ignored the fatass. If both of his friends-- if Cartman could even be _called _that-- needed emotional counseling, Stan's needs would come in dead first.

"Hey, dude," he said, trying to sound as normal as possible. He had hoped that Stan's eyebrows would uncross at his cheerfulness, but it didn't happen. Didn't even come _close. _"What's all of this about? We have a math test today, and--"

"We've got a problem, dude," said Stan, interrupting with a short lack of ceremony. "I think the math test can wait,"

It was briefly silent. Kyle blinked at Stan, and cocked his head, feeling like he was missing a very vital _something. _What could put a look on everybody's face like this? Why did Stan look so worried, Cartman so _scared . . . _and of course, he couldn't _see _Kenny's face, but he could tell it was probably just as drained.

Just what the hell was going _on _here?

"Okay. That's enough. Tell me what's going on. Is it something about Wendy again? Because I--"

"No, no, no, no, no, not that. Well . . . Not exactly," Stan looked down at the ground, shuffling his feet. It was something so unusual to the group's natural born leader that it actually struck Kyle aback, made his heart sunder heartily against his ribs. "It's not just something about the safety of _her. _It's something about the safety of _everybody. _It's--"

Suddenly, it all hit Kyle. It was so obvious that he couldn't believe it hadn't hit him before, when he had first glimpsed the downcast looks on his three friends' faces. All of the signs were there. Cartman, with his gentle sarcasm. Stan, looking guilty or embarrassed. Kenny being astonishingly quiet.

"Oh, God," said Kyle, looking at them each in turn with disbelief. "Oh, God, you . . . You all--"

Stan nodded, once. It was the only confirmation needed.

"Yeah, dude. It was Kenny," he said, speaking low and guilty. "He had a premonition. One that we couldn't ignore, and now--"

"But we had a pact, Stan!" He wasn't aware that he was screaming until he heard it pulling out of his chest. It boomed and echoed in the still winter air, fluttering all around. It made his chilled lungs ache. "We made a pact, _together, _that we'd never use them again!"

Cartman stepped forward this time. His look of fear had been erased, a bit, and was instead replaced with a slight anger.

"Shut the hell up, Kyle! Do you want everyone and their _dog _to know our secret?"

"Maybe that would be better, so you wouldn't be tempted to use your powers all the time!" Kyle shot back. There was no going back, now. He was too hyped up. Too _angry. _Just how could they? Just how could they--

He felt Stan's hands fall on his shoulders. Like they always had the power to do, Kyle felt his muscles melting beneath them . . . And felt all of the hot wind go rushing from his lungs. Damn it. It was so _annoying _how Stan had the power to do that.

He sat down, the cold snow freezing his rear. Stan, Cartman and Kenny followed immediate suit.

"Look. Kenny can't control his premonitions. You know that," said Stan. Kyle crossed his arms and looked away, his face hot with rage and terror. "He had a premonition, and you know as well as I do that he doesn't have those for just any reason. He has them because we're supposed to _do _something about it,"

Kyle snorted. "Yeah. Something we _could _do is ignore them, Stan,"

"We can't do that. And you know why,"

Kyle was silent. He could feel all three pairs of eyes upon him, burning his flesh like lasers. Especially Stan's. They held the most weight of all, and not just because he was the one person in the world Kyle would entrust his entire life with. It was also because, no matter how much Kyle didn't want to admit it, he was right. His best friend in the whole world was _right, _as he had a running tendency to be.

But why did it have to be something like _this, _now? Why did he have to be right about something like _this, _when it had caused them so much shit before?

He finally brought himself to look back up at Stan. His best friend's blue eyes were unusually flat, lacking the excited twinkle they had the tendency to hold.

"No, I do not know why. Do you remember what happened the last time we followed one of Kenny's premonitions, Stan? The _destruction _that followed?" He shot his eyes down to his shoes, trying hard not to let that flood come back. Not to let the way it felt to see with blood clotting up your eyes clog his thoughts, and hinder him from arguing this at his best and fullest. "Do you remember the _month long hospital stay _that followed, after I blew us all to--"

"But that was all _you, _Kyle! You could have prevented it!" Cartman's sharp, piggish voice cut into Kyle's like a spade through a marshmallow. "If you would just learn how to control your freaky power instead of messing it up all the time, none of that would have happened!"

Before Kyle could open his mouth to retort, Stan's red mitten had lashed out and popped Cartman right in the face. It wasn't a hard hit, but enough to shut the fat sissy up. He sat simmering in the snow, looking into the distance, his arms crossed as tightly as they could get over his large chest.

"That's not true, Kyle. You know it isn't," Said Stan, turning back to him. His guilty look had disappeared entirely, and he now looked fierce and determined. The _old _Stan, back for the count. "When Kenny has a premonition, we're meant to use our gifts to _do_ something. To _save _someone. That's the way it's always been, and that's the way it has to _be. _Sure, we all got hurt last time. But if we hadn't have gotten hurt, what do you think would have happened to that kid we saved? Do you think he'd be alive today?"

Kyle looked back down at the snow. "No, he wouldn't, but . . ."

"We saved him by following Kenny's premonition, just like we saved all of the _others _by following the _other _premonitions! It was . . . It was just bad luck last time!"

"Yeah, but bad luck that _I _caused!"

Kyle got up from his place on the ground. Dusting the snow off his rear end he leaned against the tree, placing his forehead against the rough bark. It somehow made all of this seem more real. Made _him _seem more _grounded. _

"If I didn't have that stupid power . . . If I hadn't have used it . . . We all would have been safe,"

"Yes. _We _would have. But not the kid we saved. It was _your _power that stopped that guy. Your power of explosion. If you hadn't have . . . His kidnapper would have gotten away,"

Once again, Kyle was silent. He felt a hand fall on his calf, and judged it to be Kenny trying to calm him down. But he couldn't make away with the horrible images. The images of Kenny, having jumped in the path of his blast, being vaporized into millions of tiny, blood-red pieces . . .

"But . . . Oh my God, Stan! I _killed _Kenny!" Kyle blurted, still looking at the tree. It suddenly seemed a little foolish, to be making such a big deal out of this . . . Especially when everyone else seemed so cool about it. When _Stan _seemed so cool about it. Was it possible that he was overreacting just a tad? "I couldn't control my power, and I tried to hit the guy but I hit Kenny instead, and I--"

Kenny's voice emitted from the caverns of his hood, muffled and nearly indiscernible. Despite the nasty things that mouth could, at times, emit, his words were comforting and sensible. _Kind. _

"You hit me, but I came back, Kyle. It's all right,"

A smile came to Kyle's lips, very reluctant in coming. It felt grim and painful, like smiling with a face full of dried clay. He continued to study the pattern of the bark, memorizing the loops and jutting spurs. Their general confusion seemed to match his state of mind at the point.

"Of course you came back. You always do. But what if it had been Stan that I'd hit? Butters? Cartman? Are you able to say they'd do the same?"

Silence, from Kenny. A strange guilt coated Kyle's heart, but he swallowed a lump and bit it all back.

Stan's hand fell on his shoulder, and turned him around. He was suddenly staring back into the face of his concerned friend, and it was somewhat different from the confused pattern of the tree bark. It was straight and certain, heavy and firm.

"It doesn't matter if you like it or not, Kyle. Sure, one of us might die. But one of us might _also _die getting hit by a car. Our heart could suddenly stop." He shrugged. At Kyle's sudden appalled look, a slight smirk came to his face. "Who knows? You yourself had to be revived just two weeks ago, after Manbearpig grabbed you. And that had virtually nothing to do with our powers,"

"Yeah, but, but . . ." Kyle paused, looked at his feet. He could see the victorious smirk of Eric Cartman from his upper field of vision, but, unusually, it was easily ignored. "What if . . . What if we . . ."

The ring of the tardy bell sounded across the school yard. All four boys reacted to this surprise with a notable jolt, an action that came with relative risk when related to Kyle or Stan. At the upward movement of Stan's hand, a tiny rock in its path was thrown up into the air as if on stage attachments.

He snapped his powerful hands back to his sides, and began hurrying toward the school. Naturally, everyone else followed.

"Come on, guys! We'll get a hold of Butters at recess and talk about this then!" The bell rang again, nearly drowning his voice. His feet began moving faster. "We're going to be late!"

The other three boys followed after the natural born leader, thoughts of school and tardiness out drowned by those of much better things. Especially the mind of Kyle Broflovski, who wondered whether or not teaching a child to believe in magic could be considered masochism.

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The room was dark and foggy. In the hollow of the blank dark the sound of a gentle drip roamed the night, repetitive enough to produce madness in the weak. The smell was that of clotting mold and rotting animals. The light was dim, bleak circles around flickering bulbs sprinkled with mist.

The man sitting at the table, huge shoulders hunching over its face, was covered in shadow. The only part of him visible was one of his burly hands, and it was covered in a garden of thick black hair.

"So show them to me," He growled, his voice rolling gruffly from the buff chest. The man standing in front of him, invisible in the black, flinched just a hair. "Tell me what all this hype is about. What I should be worrying about,"

The invisible man threw something down on the table. The burly man, affectionately known as Slicer by his closest friends and enemies, looked down at it with a grunt of irritation. Really, this _couldn't _be worth his time.

It was a photograph. In it stood the figure of a little boy, smiling joyfully to the camera lens. On his head was a tuft of golden yellow hair. His skin was pale and frail looking.

"A kid?" Slicer growled, pounding his fist on the table. "Members of the Alliance across the _world _are nervous about _some kid?" _

"Not just some _kid, _your honor. Some _kids," _The invisible man in front of him stammered, stumbling clumsily over each word. He placed a hand on the photo and moved it a bit forward in the light, tapping his finger on the fair but cheerful face. Slicer looked closer, grunting endlessly out his throat. "We weren't sure about it before, but now we're completely certain,"

Slicer pinched his cigar between two fingers, sending the putrid smoke out from puckered lips. He squinted over the picture, straining his bad eyes for all they were worth. _Damn _the pupils of a demon. Unless his form was fully changed, they were useless for everything except total night vision.

He scooted closer to the table. "Certain about what?" He blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to clear the endless blur.

The invisible man spoke again. This time, his voice sounded confident and loud.

"Why, certain that they're the inheritors, of course. The inheritors of the power that vanquished us, years ago. Now that we have returned to the underworld, it is believed that the power has, as well,"

Slicer nodded. Not because he agreed-- because what Connell was saying sounded like total bullshit-- but because his attention was caught. No matter _how _outrageous, this was an interesting story indeed. The power was rumored to be able to return, but, well . . . That was nothing but _legend. _A lie coated in romantic fantasies.

"Okay. So who is he?" Slicer asked, smiling as he adjusted the picture beneath the light. He would never admit it, but he liked kids. Had liked them before his eternal transformation, and supposed that he always would. He supposed it was something in their playfulness and innocence; two things that, unfortunately, had never existed in his sorry life. "Who is the adorable little thing?"

"Leopold Stotch, sir. Nine years old," Connell rambled, clasping his hands behind his back. "Not the one we have to worry about the most, but a formidable adversary just the same. 'Adorable' he may be, but not when you glimpse his power," Slicer nodded, still smiling. He tapped his ashes to the side, making gentle care that they didn't fall on the photograph.

"'Power'? You say he's an inheritor . . . So which has he inherited?"

"Force field, sir. The power to protect himself and others. Impenetratable by everything but the most potent of magic,"

Slicer nodded, inhaling again on his cigar. "Mm-Hmm. Anything else?"

"We aren't quite sure, but we believe as a secondary power he possesses amplified reflection. Very dangerous to those not prepared. He can take anything someone shoots at him, and reflect it back more than double,"

_Ahh, _Slicer thought, bringing a hand out to stroke his thick whiskers. _So the kid's a rubber ball. _He could hardly believe it by looking at the boy. He looked like the type that would be guilty if he pissed a drop on the quimode-- but, then again, you could never judge a person by a picture. Behind that smile could be one of the most sadistic minds ever born to the world.

The kid wasn't a demon, so he doubted it. But rubber balls had never been much trouble. The_ last_ one hadn't been. As long as you were sure to knock them out first, they were nothing but smooth gravy.

He studied the picture a little longer, sinking the face into his brain. He was sure he'd need to store it away for later.

"Okay. So we've got a rubber ball," Said Slicer, sliding the photo to the side. He looked back up into Connell's face. "And the next one?"

Connell gave a yellowed, broken-toothed smile. He removed yet another photograph from his breast pocket, and placed it on the table.

"Kenny McCormick, sir. Nine years old. A clairvoyant-- the powers of precognition and instinct. Also believed to resurrect, on occasion . . . But we're not entirely sure," The kid was blonde, like the first one. But he didn't have the same innocence to him as the rubber ball did. This was a fact Slicer could discern without even deeply studying the picture. It was something in the face. Something in the _eyes. _But no matter how tough-as-nails the kid seemed, the one unavoidable fact about precogs was that they were weak. The weakest in the supernatural world, as a fact. They had no way to defend themselves save for predicting the situation which might get them hurt.

_No matter how well they predict, that won't save them from a dagger in the chest, _Slicer thought, rolling the cigar between his two fingers, smirking in a way that lined his face with hard shadow. He pictured the face of that last precog, the hot little thing with the long black hair, and remembered how easy it had been to kill her. Yes, it was her gift that had brought them to that final fight. But it surely hadn't saved her.

He slid the picture to the side, on top of the other of the rubber ball. He was smiling as he did it, something that scared him more than the thought of the inheritors.

"And there's more?"

"Yes, sir. Five. Five inheritors, from five original powers,"

"Allrighty then. Let's see 'em."

Without another word, Connell slid another picture from his breast pocket. This one was not only surprising, but also absolutely _laughable-- _Slicer threw his head back and bellowed to the ceiling, slapping a knee through his jeans.

"Oh, please," He wheezed, spitting out his cigar before he choked. He looked back down at the photograph and laughter began again, springing exhaustibly from his smoke-stained lungs. "This can't _seriously _be one of the inheritors!"

"It is, sir. Not a strong power, but definitely a nuisance,"

Slicer readjusted himself in his chair. Laughter fought to bubble out from his chest, but he fought it. He studied carefully the picture of the child in front of him, wiping madly at his tearing eyes.

"Okay. So who's the butterball?"

Connell chuckled, but swiftly regained his composure. He resumed the previous position; back straight, hands clasped.

"The 'butterball' is Eric Cartman, nine years old. And though his weight is . . . Substantial, and it _should _hinder his performance and speed, it doesn't because--"

"Because he's a leaper, huh?" Slicer finished, puffing a ring from the cigar. Of _course. _Of _course _the fat one had to be a leaper. How else would it work out? "The little butterball teleports?"

"Yes, sir. Teleports, and as a secondary ability is believed to possess levitation."

Slicer's smirk grew. Teleportation, huh? With a big fat dose of levitation. Not much of a road block if you looked at it in power's standards . . . But quite a force to be reckoned with when your destruction counted on accuracy. How could you hit a guy who could bounce all around you? Who could be, in the blink of an eye, three feet to the right of your aim? Not only in regards to teleportation, but levitation could be a pain, as well. When you tried to drop-kick someone who could lift right above your foot, you oftentimes landed on your ass.

But it was okay. _No big dealio. _Because it was nothing but a defense, right? And without an offense, one could only last so long.

Slicer kicked back in his chair, propped his feet on the table. It wobbled threateningly beneath them. "Wow. So we've got the leaper. No big problem-- more of a pest. The last one was killed rather easily. All it takes is a good sneak from behind,"

Connell nodded. "Precisely. No need to get discouraged . . . At least, not until you hear about the next one,"

Connell took the fourth picture from his pocket, tossed it onto the table. It skidded over the wood and landed cattycornered in front of Slicer, the glossy corner pointing off the edge of the table.

"Stanley Marsh. Eight years old. The believed leader of the inheritors-- and the strongest of the five,"

Okay. The leader. The _strongest. This, _he _had _to see.

The kid in the picture looked like your perfect, all-American sweetheart. He was little now, yes, but Slicer could see the kid he would later become in high school. Popular. Handsome. Quarterback of the football team, president of the student council, object of all the lady's desires. It was something in the kid's stance, he thought. Something in that brave and determined look in his bright, crystal blue eyes.

Something that said he was a force to be reckoned with. And that he would _not _back down easily.

"So what's our strongest do? Kill on sight? Take over the mind?"

Connell was shaking his head. "No, no no no your honor. Nothing like that. Little Stanley Marsh is a telekinetic. A mover. He can send things flying with the swing of his hand . . . Or the squint of an eye,"

Slicer nodded eagerly. "Okay, okay. Not bad. Any thing else? Does he have a secondary power?"

"Yes, your honor. Astral projection,"

And _that _was the real downer. Astral projection in itself was no big deal . . . Nothing more complicated than teleportation. _Worse, _actually. When an inheritor astral projected, the original body was left immobile and defenseless. If the projector wasn't careful, the body could be slaughtered in this moment of immobility and thus end the life all together.

But if the projector had _another _power, especially a particularly dangerous one such as telekinesis, the power could become a sentence for death and destruction. Sure, the leaper could leap . . . But without another power to use on the offense, the power was nothing. Little Stanley, being a mover _and _a projector, could end up being the downfall of, potentially, whole groups of Alliance members.

_Damn it, _Slicer thought, crumbling tobacco between his fingertips. _This could be a problem._

"Okay. So this one's the one to watch out for. After taking care of the rubber ball to eliminate his defense, we should get rid of this one as soon as possible," he said, rubbing his brow with his rough fingers. _Gosh. _There were many of his Alliance members-- many whose faces he could picture in his head-- who would have circles run around them by the mover alone. And if he led the others, that made it twice as bad. "A mover _and _a projector? I might have to kill that one myself!"

"Well, I wouldn't be too discouraged yet, your honor. There is still one more, and . . . Though he is not the strongest, his powers have the potential to be the most lethal ever seen in the supernatural world," _Oh, great. More bad news. _"Let's see him," said Slicer, continuing to rub his brow.

Connell threw the last picture upon the table top. In it was a little red-haired boy, obviously Jewish and unhealthily scrawny. The look in his eyes said he was honest and good, the picture-perfect child and ideal for any parent to have.

Slicer tried to smile, but he couldn't. He tapped his ashes, and this time made no pains to control where they fell.

"His powers?" He asked through clenched, nervous teeth.

Connell, a little shaken himself, cleared his throat. "Well, they revolve on the control of molecules, your honor. Of course you must know what this means,"

Controlling molecules? Of _course _he did. Slicer pounded a fist lightly on the table, watching the pictures and ashes shake.

"Of course I do. Controlling molecules? That gives him the power to do two things,"

Connell nodded, but said nothing. Apparently, he was leaving that privilege to Slicer himself.

Slicer let out a breath through clenched teeth. "If he controls molecules, that means he can do two things to them. One: slow them down. Thus, freeze his subject,"

Connell nodded. "Yes. Freeze his subject. Right in place, like a human statue. A formidable power, yes, but avoidable. Many of our upper levels have grown strong enough to break the freeze,"

Slicer looked down at the top of the table, thoughtfully. He studied the hairy patterns on the backs of his hands. "If he can slow the molecules down, that means he can also accelerate them. If he accelerates them, then that means . . ."

_Sayonara, baby. Anything from the tiniest ant to the empire state building can be blown all to hell in less than two seconds._

He had never seen the power in action. He had seen freezing, yes, but exploding was a much different story. Those with the power to slow molecules usually couldn't go the other way around. He had only seen it in, of course, _inheritors, _but never practiced to the best of its ability. Due to its strength, the power was desperately hard to control. In the last dispatched round of inheritors, he had seen their little exploder aim straight for a demon's head and blow up a sparrow twenty feet away instead. It had never been clear exactly _what _made the power so hard to control, but he had an idea it had to do with fairness. You couldn't have someone packing power like that just walking around. The entire world could fall straight into his hands.

"Surely he can't . . . can't . . ."

"Eight-year-old Kyle Broflovski can't control his power completely, your honor, no. And you'd be pleased to hear that he refrains from using it. Turns out it scares him,"

Slicer smiled. It was grim, and not joyful.

"Ha! I guess that can be expected from a kid, huh? Guess we got lucky,"

He expected Connell to smile, but he didn't. He only shook his head.

"No, not lucky enough. Though Kyle Broflovski is afraid to use his power, and though he is not yet strong enough to control it, it is lethal beyond what we can fathom. And the boy gets stronger everyday. Just as is the leader, and just as are the other boys, little Kyle is growing. _Learning. _

"The older and more experienced the boy becomes, the more of a handle he will gain on his power.

"And once it gets to a certain point, there will be nothing we can do,"

Slicer could only look at the picture. It was strange, the way it felt when you realized the world could just go sliding on around your ears; it was a strange lack of control, and horribly unpleasant. That feeling of _doom. _The way the humans would probably feel when the first celestial trumpet was sounded. And it was extremely hard to believe that the little kid in the picture could be the author of that doom. He was pale. _Scrawny. _And possibly sickly, judging by the color of his skin.

_But that's okay, _Slicer thought, unaware that he was wringing his hands. _That's okay, because we can take care of him. He has the power, but if he's afraid to use it . . . _

"We still have time. We just need to kill him fast. Get him alone," said Slicer, speaking a little louder than he intended. A little _faster _than he intended. He hated how nervous this kid was making him and, little and cute or not, the boy would pay for it later in spades. "He's really no danger being as he is now . . . And if we can get him _at least _away from the rubber ball, one of my lower demons should be able to take him out without ceremony."

Connell was nodding, but not smiling. That was the biggest flaw with his advisor-- the fact that, speaking or not, the man sucked at lying.

"Not a lower demon. Though he is afraid to explode, the boy _has _been known to freeze . . . So an upper would be sufficient,"

Slicer nodded. Of _course. _"Yeah,"

"And the boy's ninth birthday is coming soon. He's growing older. 'Fast' is variable, because we're running out of time."

_Running out of time? No-- _they're _running out of time. Because we're not going to mess with them, this round. We're going to come in swift and take them faster than they can call for their mommies._

Connell blinked and cocked his head. "Sir?"

Slicer looked back up at him. "Do they have a healer yet? One they run to with their battle injuries to have their booboos fixed?"

"Not yet, sir. It was, at first, believed to be the precog that doubled as their healer, due to his uncanny power of resurrection . . . But we now see that that's very impossible. After their last battle, the boys had to stay in the local hospital, which means that their healer is yet undiscovered," _Yes. Why would kids who can have their injuries healed in a second bother with the hospital? _Slicer thought, snuffing the tip of his cigar on the table.

Connell was silent, then, giving his boss a well-needed second to think. It was appreciated, needed, but not too much. Slicer had already heard what he needed to hear, and planned what he needed to plan. It took only a second for the greatest of all demons. Strategy ran in his blood.

He brought his rough fingers up to his whiskers, and stroked them. The heavy _scritch-scratch _filled the damp air around them.

"Okay. So our first move is easy," Slicer thought out loud, still stroking his stubble. "We need to find out who their healer might be. If we fight them without finding out, the one we don't kill will just be thrown back into the fight. Not good," Connell nodded, agreeing. "Yes. The faster the healer is located, the easier it will be to eliminate those who require swift elimination."

Slicer nodded. _Yes. _Locating the healer could help them with the elimination of the rubber ball, who, of course, _must _be killed first . . . And then the others would follow quite easily, like dominos lined for the fall. The mover and the exploder might display quite a bit more difficulty, but in the end they were all just kids. _Children. _

_And just how tough can the kiddies be?_

"Sir? Have you decided on our first motion?" Connell asked, picking the photos up from the table and stashing them back into his pocket. "The plan of action to carry this out?"

Slicer drummed his fingers on the table, still thinking. It had nothing to do with their first plan of action. _That _was completely obvious, and already mapped out meticulously in his head.

"Yes, Connell. Our first plan is simple. I want five lower demons, each with the ability of invisibility, to spy on our five inheritors. By doing this, he will be certain to find the healer. Throughout time, he has always stayed close," Connell nodded, slightly smiling. "Yes, yes. And if they see the opening . . ."

"If they see the opening, _especially _with the rubber ball or the exploder, they are to take swift action. To _kill. _Hell, might as well make it the same with the others . . . If one gets hurt, the healer is much more likely to reveal himself," Connell nodded. "Yes, sir. So we give the healer the chance to act,"

"Yes. Any way to spring blood to the little darlings, have it done. Even just to trip one of them, to make him skin his knee . . . Have it done. A healer's instinct is unmistakable."

Connell nodded, again. The play of the slight light in his eyes was eerie and sadistic. "Yes, sir. It shall be done."

"Good. Then go out and _get _it done. Get me five lower demons, and a status report every hour," "Yes, sir," Connell bowed, and was gone.

Slicer reclined back in his chair. He would have looked at the photographs again, to be certain . . . But he had it all pretty well engrained into his mind. He was good at that. The little blonde one, a rubber ball. The shy one a precog. The butterball a leaper, the leader a mover . . . And the Jew an exploder. The most dangerous inheritor of all.

_And now . . . We just need to find the healer. _

_One step at a time._


	2. Chapter 2

Hey, guys! Sorry for the lack of introduction before . . . I guess I wasn't expecting the amount of praise I received for it! Supernatural powers, you know, lots of people are turned off at that word . . . But thank you guys so much for being so supportive! You know who you are, favoriters, story alerters and reviewers! ;)

OK, so next up, it's at the boys' houses. What happens when Connell sends these demons after our boys? And who's the healer? Read to find out!

Disclaimer: I do not own the wonders of South Park, or the powers I borrowed from lovely Charmed. Thanks for the inspiration, Halliwells!

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Chapter 2: Strange Occurrences

Telling Butters the news had been hard, at best. The boy, never the best at handling things in even the most stable of situations, had reacted so badly to the news that it had been necessary to forcefully restrain him. And he didn't go well with a hand over his mouth, either. All three boys that had tried had ended up with bite marks on their palms.

Looking at the bite mark on his own palm, Eric Cartman scowled. He would have to get the little pipsqueak for that, make no mistake. It was pretty hard to brush your teeth when you couldn't even curl your fist.

"Eric, hon? Are you done brushing your teeth yet?"

His mother's voice floated up the stairs, jolly and loving in tone. No matter how loving, however, the voice would _always _get on Cartman's nerves. At hearing it, he was forced to grit his teeth and bite back several expletives.

"Not yet, mom, _Gahd! _I just got started in here!"

"All righty, then! Well, hurry up so mommy can tuck you in and read your bedtime story!"

Cartman squeezed a long line of toothpaste on his toothbrush and began the two-minute process, curling his injured fist carefully around the handle. The palm was so tender that it was all he could do not to drop the toothbrush down the front of his pajamas.

"Stupid Butters. I can't wait until I see him tomorrow so I can shove my foot up his asshole," That was, _if _he got to see Butters tomorrow.

The kid had been so shaken up that Kenny had had to walk him home. Even with someone supporting him, his steps had been wobbly and weak through the snow. Cartman could have teleported him there, sure. He could have saved poor, traumatized Butters the agony of walking home, and Kenny the labor of making sure he got there.

_But if Id've done that, I would have missed the hilarity of his struggles, _Cartman thought, smiling past the toothbrush.

Once he was done, he threw the dirty toothbrush next to the sink for his mom to clean up and launched himself off the stool. On the process of getting down he stumbled, and nearly barked his shin on the tile . . . But managed to recover himself at the last minute with only a small scrape on his palm. Not enough to bring blood, or much pain.

"Damn," He remarked passively, continuing out of the bathroom.

He made it to his bedroom, where his mother was sitting on a stool next to his bed. He made it down the hallway just fine, and mostly into his bedroom . . . But halfway to his bed he tripped over his own feet and spilled face first on the floor. Not even his knees caught him.

"Oh, _Damn it!" _He shouted violently.

Lianne Cartman was off the stool and hurrying toward him before the words were completely out. She threw the book aside, onto the smiling face of Clyde Frog, and bent down to her sprawling son.

"Eric! Oh, honey, are you okay?" Cartman batted her aside, and pulled himself up onto his knees. He could feel an eye-prickling sting already budding on the skin beneath the knee parts of his pajamas, as well as on his palms. _Damn _it. That made it the second time this night.

"Yeah, I'm okay, it just seems like every damned thing in this house is trying to make me eat carpet!"

"Well, you're a little too young for that son, don't you think?"

Cartman didn't even try to decipher the meaning of her latest confusing statement. Using her hand as an anchor he pulled himself from the floor, hauling his weight with a bit of effort. Were his mother not standing there, he simply would have teleported to his feet. But he could never let her see, now could he?

_Stupid Stan with his dumb rules. Why don't I just break them? It's not like he's the boss of me. It's not like he'll do anything about it if I do._

But Cartman had to pause right there. Because, before all of this crazy stuff happened, he had been entirely _sure _that Stan would never hurt him. He had been much too passive, much too easy-going. But now, all of the sudden, he seemed to have undergone a distinct change . . . Not big enough to be noticed by someone who hadn't known him the past five years.

No, he didn't _think _Stan would hurt him. But he couldn't be _sure._

So it was best to stick to the rules, lame or not.

"Eric? Eric, poopsikens, you're zoning out!"

Cartman felt his mother grab his shoulders, and shake him roughly like a rag doll. He would have bitten her head off, had he not been so peacefully zoned . .. But the shaking was like a welcome wake-up call back to Earth. He came back in with nothing more than a simple shake of his head.

"I'm . . . fine, mom," He said slowly, bracing himself against her shoulder. He suddenly needed it, _desperately, _else he thought he might fall over. What_ was _it affecting his equilibrium tonight? This clumsy thing wasn't him. More of a Butters thing.

Leanne Cartman didn't seem to take her son's word for it. She remained crouched next to him, her arm around his shoulders, until he thought it might drive him crazy.

"Do you need mommy to call the doctor, sweety? Oh, my, you could have a brain tumor, or a . . ."

Cartman only looked at the skinned marks on his palms, which were now leaking isolated beads of shiny, bright red blood. His mother was still speaking in some other, distant country, but the only thing he noticed was the blood. That from the bite mark of earlier was dried, clotted, scabbed . . . But this was new and glinting reflections off the light.

_What the hell? It's just blood. I've skinned my knees and palms so many times before I can't even count, even _bled _worse, so why the hell am I so worried about this? _That was just the thing. He didn't _know. _It was just a feeling, somewhere deep inside of him . . . The way Kenny described the strong instincts he received as a result of his powers. He could have been bullshitting. The kid was poor. Poor people used whatever they could to gain an edge.

_But what the hell, I don't wanna die. If I don't listen, what if something happens to me?_

It was a result of this thought, large and ominous, that made Eric Cartman decide to listen to his instincts.

He turned to his mother. For her, he put on a large, false smile . . . And squeezed down a grimace as he wrapped his arms around her waist, as tight as he could get them.

"Good night, mommy," He said falsely, trying to squeeze her harder. "I don't need my story tonight. I'm just *yawn* so tired,"

_Liars go to hell, Eric. Isn't that what grandma always says?_

Eric buried his face in his mother's middle to hide the scowl.

His mother seemed confused but, in the end, the scheme worked. With a few annoying questions and rubs to the back, she stood up and walked to the door, switching off the light on her way. His lamp was left on, as usual. That was all he needed.

"Good night, hon," She said sweetly, still looking a bit confused. "Call me if you need any band aids for your hands," "Okay, _mooooooooommm," _Eric said, feeling like his face might crack from the smile. "Love you,"

"I love you too, hon," It seemed like it took forever for her to close the door. When she finally did, and her footsteps had distanced far enough from the doorway to where Cartman didn't think he could be heard, he walked over to his telephone. He had always wondered why the damned thing was in here. It felt nice to know it finally had a use.

Not willing to risk another unnecessary spill, Cartman levitated himself on his bed. The landing was rough, as it always was . . . But when he was firmly situated, he was comfortable enough. He put the phone in the light, so he could see to dial.

And, one by one, he began to punch in Kenny's number.

************************************************************

"Are . . . Are you sure you don't wanna stay later, Kenny?" Butters asked, standing at the doorway after his heavily bundled friend. Kenny had stayed a good three hours after he had taken Butters home, and acted as an emotional life jacket for all the things running through his mind.

Now Kenny was leaving, to go and eat dinner with his family. And what was Butters supposed to do? Drown? "I mean, uh . . . I feel awful bad about that hand of yours. I didn't have to bite like that, I'm just a mean old--"

Before Butters could continue degrading himself, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Even if the room had been full of strangers he wouldn't have had to look up to see that it was Kenny; the boy just had that sort of warmth about him.

"It's okay, Butters. Don't worry about it. We _did _inform you sort of fast,"

Butters thought about that day's recess, about being swamped by the other four boys while playing hopscotch with Clyde, and shuddered. Yeah. _Fast. _Even _Christmas _would have been too fast.

He could hear the clink of the plates as his parents grew impatient behind him. Oh, Christmas, was _he _going to get it if he wasn't sitting down by supper time.

"So, Stan's gonna call me about it later, right? Now that we're forewarned and prepared, it should all be easy,"

Kenny briefly dipped his head, appearing to think. When he raised it again, he looked slightly worried.

"I don't know about the easy part. But Stan will definitely call you later. Can you put it past him?"

Butters thought about it, and decided no, he couldn't. Not in a situation such as this, at least. And in the places where Stan lacked, Kyle was the cleaning crew. He'd find out more information sooner or later, by either one or the other. And, since Stan had a study date with Wendy tonight, he was expecting that call from Kyle.

And what of Kyle? He'd been pretty quiet today when Stan, Kenny and Cartman had been filling him in. Nothing but a background prop for a great scene.

"So are you sure you don't wanna stay for dinner? We're having macaroni and cheese as a, side dish," Butters stammered, knocking his fists together. He looked at the floor as he said it, not wanting Kenny to read the desperation in his eyes. Not wanting him to read the _need. _It was humiliating enough, freaking out in the middle of recess. It would be worse to let Kenny know his leave would promote a mental breakdown. "We can take it up to my room and play Legos. I just got finished building the Hello Kitty Castle,"

Kenny looked past Butters, appearing to think. Butters' inner mind was suddenly a battlefield of roiling thoughts.

_If Kenny doesn't stay, I don't know what I'm gonna do. I can't talk to my mom or my dad about it, because Stan told me not to. I can't talk to Stan, because he's on a date with Wendy. And Kyle's got a . .. a stick up his bum, or something. Eric will just laugh at me._

It took a moment for Butters to remember Kenny's presence in front of him. When he did, the other boy had stepped slightly forward, his eyes slanted just a little in concern. It was a calculating type of concern, as if he were trying to figure Butters out.

"If you . . . Just _want _me to stay, I will," said Kenny, slowly, carefully. He took another step forward. _"Do _you want me to stay?"

Knocking his fists together, Butters looked at the ground. He felt the blood rise to his cheeks, creating a blush that answered the question for him.

_Oh, Christmas. If they all thought I was a wuss before, what are they going to think now?_

The clank of the plates behind him increased, becoming violent and angry. It was his mother, no doubt. Becoming even _more _impatient.

_No time to think anymore. I'd better just tell him I'm a wuss and get it over with._

Surprisingly, those words were not the ones that came from his lips.

"Aw, shucks Kenny. I'm sorry for giving you such a hard time. You can go on home, and have dinner with your, family. I'll be okay," He somehow smiled. It felt warm and genuine, despite all the alarms in his head that screamed he was a liar. It was wrong to lie to him. Wrong to lie to _any _of them. They'd been nothing but good friends through this strange, outrageous time-- everyone except Eric Cartman of course, but that was to be expected-- and they didn't deserve that. They deserved nothing but clear, honest truth, with a fat cherry of sweetness to rest right on top.

But if he didn't lie to Kenny, he knew for a fact it would be inhibiting the boy's happiness. And why inhibit the happiness of a boy who stressed himself to save your life?

"Really, Kenny. I'll be fine. You don't need to be worrying about, little old me,"

He couldn't see Kenny's face, but he knew it was relieved. Relieved that he was not forced to stay over and offer emotional support; a fact that made Butters feel heinously bad.

Kenny placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, momentarily. Butters tried his best to force out a smile.

"Okay, dude. But just call Stan if you need anything, okay? I would say call me, but my parents sort of didn't pay the bill so . . ."

Butters immediately understood. "Right, Kenny. You have a, nice dinner,"

The orange-coated boy waved one last time, and began his slow walk down the cemented pathway. Butters found it hard to close the door behind him, and when he did, it was slow and reluctant.

When he turned away from the door, his parents were standing side-by-side in the dining room doorway. His mother had her hands on her hips, as usual; his father was staring at him with an expression fit to send a rhinoceros running. Butters' heart stuttered and paused, so long that for a moment he believed it had stopped.

He didn't _want _to look at the ground. Why should a kid who had such awesome, killer powers have to look at the ground when their parents scolded them? But as much as he didn't like it, he found his pupils seeking the barren flatland of curly green carpet. It was an action more habit than desire.

"Aw, shucks, mom and dad. I'm sorry for . . . For not getting to dinner on time," He said quietly, feeling something ridiculously like tears pricking behind his eyes. _Pull yourself together, _He thought, quite ineffectually. _You're not just some normal kid anymore, why . . . You're more than Professor Chaos!_

He thought about this a moment, biting his bottom lip. The sweet, coppery taste of blood billowed over his tongue and coated his mouth. _If that's so, why don't I feel like it?_

"You were supposed to help your mother set up the table, Butters. Remember? You have things called _chores?"_

Butters flinched at the emphasized word, still not looking up at them. His father's shadow had suddenly fallen over him, turning the green of the carpet into a well-smudged gray. The beating fan blades above made revolving shadows on the floor, creating a picture far more interesting than the face of his father could ever be. He kept his eyes on it.

"Yuh-Yes, sir. I _did _remember, it's just that I needed to walk Kenny to the door, so I could--"

--_Talk to him before I go crazy. _His father interrupted him, before he could get such an embarrassingly revealing phrase out.

"Walk your little friend to the door, huh? That sounds a little _odd, _don't you think? A little bi-curious?" Butters continued looking at the ground. He'd heard the accusation out of his father's lips many times, but that didn't make it any less humiliating. _Just ride it out, _He thought, flexing his fingers and wishing that he had the bravery to use this 'great power' on his parents. _I just gotta ride it out, and be normal, until they send me to my, room. _

This thought brought something Kenny had said to him earlier back to the surface. Something that had been casually mentioned, and yet slightly stressed, just enough to where Butters distinctly remembered it.

_Try not to be anywhere alone tonight, Butters, _He remembered Kenny saying, his voice muffled as always behind the bulk of his hood. The statement would have alarmed him, had Kenny's face not been completely free of strain. _It's not such a big deal, and I don't want you to worry about it . . . But think about spending some time with your parents tonight, okay?_

Butters bit down on his lip even harder. The taste of the blood became thick and overwhelming, but his mind barely registered it. Think about spending some time with his parents tonight? He couldn't even _look _at them! And if it wasn't such a big deal, if he shouldn't be _worried _about it . . .

His father's voice boomed from the plane of unawareness, so loud he heard his mother gasp and the old wood of the staircase creak.

"BUTTERS!"

"Aah!"

He looked up at his father's face for the first time that night, clasping his hands tightly behind his back before his surprise could give away any 'certain little secrets'. He was momentarily shocked, by what he saw-- the pupils of his father's eyes wide and dilated, the white regions around them streaked with the pulsing red of tiny blood vessels. Fine beads of sweat rolling down his face. The heat of anger boiling off him like steam from a chilled lake, and swathing Butters' face in rich warmth.

Surprisingly, he'd seen his father this angry. He'd seen him _angrier. _Butters clenched back any instinct he had to reply, and listened to his father's heated tirade. After all, it would be over, soon. And he'd be sent to his room to brood and think.

_Don't be alone, Butters. Spend some time with your parents tonight._

He gave a slight frown. _Be quiet, Kenny. You're not helping right now._

His father bellowed a few more spitting, nasty words at him, and then finally completed the gesture Butters had been waiting for the whole time. He picked up an arm and pointed to the staircase, holding his finger so rigid that Butters could see the tendons standing in the back of his hand.

"Go up to your room and _think, _Butters! I'm not having this issue with you again! You don't ignore helping your mother, and you _don't _walk other little boys to the door! Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, sir, I-uh--"

"THEN GO!"

_Gladly. _

Butters began slinking toward the staircase, hanging his head to hide what his parents probably assumed was shame or sorrow. They would never know that it was actually a smile, perhaps would have been an outright _grin, _had the strange words of Kenny not been replaying themselves over and over again in his head. By the time he reached the middle of the staircase, thinking of those words had managed to make him slightly uneasy. But by the time he got into his room, door shut behind him and reclining peaceably on his bed, he began to believe he might actually be _scared._

_Just what did he mean by that, if he didn't want me to be worried about it? Why would he say that, unless there was a reason? _Kenny's gifts were strong, there was no doubting that. And though they weren't the strongest by far, they were definitely the most _useful . . . _and the most _reliable, _too, when you thought about everyone else. His own force fields could be tough, but he had a hard time holding them up. Cartman would rarely use his gift to take anyone anywhere, unless they offered him collateral for the convenience. It wasn't uncommon for Stan to lose control once he delved into deep use of his power, often resulting in at least one of their party being knocked into a wall. And Kyle? He had no control at _all _over the best of his.

_And they came and got me at recess today because Kenny had a premonition. But we're not supposed to use our powers, right? Because Stan and Kyle told me not to. But if we're not supposed to, then why . . ._

Butters looked back at the expression on Kyle's face at recess, and everything locked into place with a satisfying _click_. _Of course. _When they had made that pact, Kyle had been the negotiator. It had been too close last time, he had said. Too _scary. _Kenny, being killed. Stan, losing control of himself and flinging Cartman all the way across the street into the Browns' flower garden. That was what had scared Kyle. Kenny had been killed the one time, and he always came back, but . . . What if Stan had accidentally killed Cartman? What if his explosion had landed somewhere else? _That _would be hard to explain to your parents.

So what could be so important that they would choose to break the pact? What could Kenny have saw that scared them all bad enough to prompt swift action?

_It's too bad that nobody would tell me, _Butters thought, lying back on his pillow.

He lay that way for awhile, waiting for something. He wasn't sure exactly what that something was, at first, but the longer he laid there the more he became certain. He was waiting for Stan's call, of course. The call that would say everything was fine, and life could go on back to normal.

Over the top of his skin, a sudden chill overtook him. The fear inside him, which had been waiting pleasantly in the wings, came billowing in strong enough to make him wish he'd helped his mother set the table.

*************************************************************

Kyle was just about to pull his pants down when a pajama-clad Cartman appeared in his bathroom. He came as fast as a blink, his form at first slightly blurred and then unmistakably clear. He stumbled a bit after the appearance, as if he'd been traveling at a very fast pace and been forced to stop.

Kyle's first thought behind the bland shock was to yank his pants back up. His second thought was to shriek in outrage, bellowing out his discomfort at this unwelcome violation.

He was only able to manage a strained stutter. "Cuh-Cuh-Cartman! What the--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hands down, explode-a-boy!" Cartman shouted, his smug eyes widening. "Do you want two million pieces of me all over your bathroom mirror?"

Kyle's gaze darted down to his bare hands for a second, gave them a startled look-- _oh, yeah, I have hands-- _and then he thrust them behind his back, lacing the fingers together tightly. He might have taken the notion to finish buttoning his pants first, but Cartman was very right. In his current pissed off state, he wasn't sure _what _he would do.

He carried his eyes back to Cartman, feeling anger pulse behind them. The fatass was just standing there, casually, as if he somehow belonged.

"What the hell are you doing in my bathroom, Cartman?" He growled, tightening his fingers. "What the hell are you doing in my _house, _this late at night?"

"Peace, simple Jew. I come in peace," said Cartman, smirking in a sweetly fake way that made Kyle's blood boil. He gritted his teeth behind closed lips, something that he would most likely pay for later in a headache. "My choice in coming into your bathroom is really quite obvious. Where was the only place your parents or Ike would most likely not be?"

His teeth groaned inside his head. _Oh my GOD, what a freaking idiot--_

"In my ROOM, Cartman!" He hissed, trying not to be too loud with his parents in the adjacent room, cleaning up the dinner mess. Good thing he was supposed to be in bed right now. They'd likely never notice the interference. "Somewhere my parents or Ike would likely not be is my ROOM!"

A brief flicker crossed Cartman's eyes. It was the flicker that often passed through when he dawned upon something he'd missed, something that was _blatantly obvious-- _an increasingly common event. Like every birthday brought him just another little gift of stupidity.

As always, Cartman ignored his temporary lapse in judgment. His speech swerved around the issue.

"I didn't get out of bed just to visit, Kyle. Believe me, I have a purpose. And if you'd quiet your naggy little voice a second and just _listen, _maybe I could get to it,"

Kyle's hands started twitching. Oh, how great it would feel to just whip them out and _KA-BLAMO, _right in the center of his head. Hell, maybe the girth of it would make an easier target. His first successful explosion.

_No. I can't think like that, _He thought erratically, crushing his hands together tighter to quiet the twitching. _He may be an asshole, but blowing him up crosses the line._

"'Kay, so you have a point. Get to it," _Before I can't control myself anymore._

Cartman smiled a little, and nodded. He clasped his hands behind his back, looked at the floor, and started pacing, something he often did when he had a complicated or rambling thought. _Oh boy, _Kyle thought exasperatedly, _We might be here for a while._

"Okay. So you know what Kenny told us earlier? About his premonition?" Cartman asked, putting a hand to his chin thoughtfully.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Of course I do. I freaked out about it, remember? And I'm _still _pissed off,"

Cartman made a small affirmative noise in his throat, and continued pacing.

Kyle waited for explanation, eyes following Cartman's back-and-forth progress across the floor. After a mere second of this, his patience was a distant stranger.

"Okay, so Kenny's premonition! What the hell is your point, Cartman?! I'm tired!"

"Well, I tried to call Kenny earlier and his phone was disconnected. No big surprise. He's _poor. _But after I tried calling him and couldn't get him, I remembered something he told us-- how he was going to stay close to Butters' house tonight, to try and prevent whatever he saw from happening. He didn't think it would happen tonight, but . . ."

Kyle forgot all about his twitching hands. He held one of them up in a 'stop' gesture, nearly quivering with delight at the expression of sheer terror that damaged the fat kid's face.

"Wait, wait, wait. Why'd you try to call Kenny?"

Cartman made rapid swiping gestures at him with a hand. "Put that thing down, Kyle! Put it down, right now, or I swear to God I'll--"

"Ugh," Kyle scoffed, rolling his eyes. _Sissy. _He tucked the hand securely behind his back again, in the moist environment of sweat and steam that had evolved between nervous palms. "Okay, okay, fine. It's gone. Now why you'd try to call Kenny?"

Cartman looked away, angling his eyes toward the ground. Kyle couldn't be entirely sure but he thought he might have saw the tiniest of blushes blooming to the boy's oversized cheeks. Embarrassed? Cartman, _embarrassed? _About _what?_

"That's none of your business," He said flatly, as if reading Kyle's mind. Kyle took a moment to realize that even if he _had, _it wouldn't have stunned him-- that was just how badly things had gotten out of control in his life, lately. He could handle _anything._

Literally, _anything._

He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. He studied the little white bumps that decorated it, seeing the same imaginary shapes in them he'd seen as a toddler.

"Okay. So Kenny is around Butters' house as a precaution. He didn't want to reveal to Butters that he saw his very _death, _and so he's sort of lingering around the windows. You needed to talk to him. You can't, because he's not near a phone,"

Cartman nodded, once. Slightly smiling. "Yes,"

There was a pause. Kyle continued looking up at the ceiling, calculating in his mind. That was a good thing about all of this. It was a _miracle, _but astounding just the same; Through all of this stress, his mind seemed just as sharp. He could only pray that it would stay that way.

A second later, he finally said, "So where do I come into all of this?"

Cartman gave him a brief sarcastic look that seemed to say _I KNOW you aren't THAT stupid. _He spread his hands.

"_Duh. _I can't go to Stan, because he's with Wendy. I can't go to Butters, _or _Kenny, because I don't want to die,"

At Kyle's gape of horror, he smirked. It looked positively evil, and that was all it took to remind Kyle-- besides the extremely rare urges that sometimes overtook the boy, Eric Cartman _was _evil. Evil through and through, with a black soul to match.

His hands started twitching like mad again. _Calm down, damn it, calm down . . ._

"Okay, so you come to me. What the hell do you want?" He demanded, suddenly disgusted to be standing here with him. With unbuttoned pants, no less. The whole thing seemed sort of . . . _wrong._ "What'd you have to come bother me for? It's not like I can _do _anything,"

"Why, yes you can, Kyle. You can call your best friend. Tell him we're coming over, because I need to talk," Kyle spread his hands. He noticed Cartman's eyes nervously flicker toward them, but he was beyond caring. Let the bastard throw his hissy fits. Maybe he'd cry some of the fat off.

"I can't get to a phone, doucher! I don't have one in my room, and my parents are in there!" He snapped, taking the convenience of the moment to button his pants. Aah. _Finally. _It had been just _too _weird.

Cartman paused, putting his finger to his chin. That sadistic look was completely gone from his eyes, now. They seemed blank and innocent.

"Well, I suppose I _could _teleport you. As a freebie," He muttered, speaking as insincerely as if a man with a gun had forced him to say it.

"Okay, well then that presents your _original _problem. _Wendy. You. Dumbass,"_

Cartman looked back up from the floor. He was smiling now, in that slight way that cut deep beneath Kyle's skin. The way he smiled after calling him some sort of random Jew slur, or after tattling on him and watching him take the fall.

He walked toward Kyle amiably. Kyle instinctively flinched back, his hands trying to come unfurled out of instinct alone. Somehow, he held them.

"Bathrooms are a wonderful thing, Kyle, my man," He rattled, grabbing his elbow. In response to Kyle's recoil, he said, "And keep those hands behind your back. I _have _to touch you to teleport you, remember? Not just because I want to,"

Kyle nodded absently, but in truth, that hadn't been what he was thinking about at all. He was thinking about what Eric had been telling him so far, and coming to realize that it didn't make much _sense. _If he was going to teleport into Stan's bathroom, why hadn't he done that in the first place? Why did he have to come all the way over here, disturb Kyle when he was about to release his water and--

_Oh, I get it, _He thought, suddenly having to bite his cheeks so he wouldn't burst out laughing. _He's a wuss, is all. He's afraid of Stan. Afraid he'll get angry if he walks in on him and Wendy, and implant him in the ceiling._

He couldn't stop all of the laughter. A strained snort betrayed him before he managed to close his lips tight enough, but he tried to disguise it as a cough. Cartman bought it, apparently, because he didn't shoot back any rude comments.

"So, dude," Kyle sputtered, still 'coughing' uncontrollably. "What we teleport into the bathroom, and Wendy's in there? What do we do then?" Cartman's hand tightened on his elbow, and reality began slipping away. They weren't wasting time to think, apparently. Just what was it freaking Cartman out so badly? What had made a boy with more pride than sense suddenly decide to seek out the help of someone who filled him with the ugliest reaches of envy?

_Do I really care anymore? _He thought, as the solid planes of the bathroom disappeared into blackness. Should _I really care? I don't want to be doing this. I want _nothing _to do with this._

And yet he'd been sucked back inside, as if the wings of fate themselves had blown him off course. It didn't matter what he wanted. It had _never _mattered. Just as the pact had to be made, it had to be broken, and all hell was enclosing on them now. From the first arrival of Kenny's premonition until the very death that would almost certainly take them all, he was strapped in to ride with no exit in sight.

_Okay. Fine. Let it be that way, _He thought, as the familiar picture of Stan Marsh's bathroom flooded his vision. No Wendy, thank God. How embarrassing would _that _have been? _Whatever will be will be, I guess. I don't think I have a choice._

_I'll just hope for all of us that we can get through it _alive.

_______________________________________________________________________________

End of the second chapter, people! Sorry it was so long! The second will be much shorter; it's already meticulously mapped out in this tangle of confusion I call a brain. So no worries!

So who is the healer? Stay tuned to chapter three to find out! He/She will be there . . . And you'll never guess who it is! (Actually, it wouldn't surprise me if some hardcore SP fans haven't figured it out.)

Okay! See you next time!

-Aub


	3. The Healer

Hey! Once again I'd like to thank everyone for the support, and for the wonderful comments you've given to me. Continuing would be so hard without you! Just remember that every chapter I write, I have you on my mind, and my biggest goal is to create an interesting story for you to read. I am open to any suggestions and plot ideas, and willing to give credit for them. After all, I'm just as blind to the future as all of you, and just thinking as I go along. That's the best way to do it, I've found. Anytime I outline a plot, the subject dissolves into dust.

By the bye . .. In case you haven't already noticed, the chapter _isn't _short. It's a combination of giving what the readers want, and the fact that I can't write _anything _without it becoming roughly the size of a short novel.

Okay, enough rambling. Here's chapter three of The Inheritors-- The Healer!

______________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 3: The Healer

"Okay. So what next? You've carried the one, and multiplied by two. What do you do next?"

In a sportily decorated bedroom inside a hunter green house on Bonanza Street, a patient young girl and a frustrated young boy lay leisurely on top of the bed, on their stomachs, a math book open between them and their chins propped in their hands. For one observing the scene on the outside, it might have seemed like hard-to-solve math problems were the most complicated things on their minds; but for one observing Stanley Marsh, biting down hard on the eraser of his pencil, that assumption would prove to be quite wrong.

_What if it _does _happen tonight? _He thought, tasting little bits of rubber break off into his mouth, neutral against his tongue. _What if Kenny's wrong, and we get there too late . . . And find Butters dead. Find them _both _dead._

Wendy's voice bounced all around him, explaining a math problem that Stan was pretending not to understand. The truth was, he _never _would. Not while his mind was this busy. Not while he was worrying endlessly, wondering whether he should be with Kenny or not . . . And regretting his acceptance of Wendy's offer to tutor him tonight.

"Do you get it now? It's really easy,"

_Maybe I should just go. I can project to Kenny and just check up on him. Make sure he's doing okay. It was stupid to let him offer to watch over Butters anyway-- he has no way to defend himself. Kyle or I should have went with him. We should have--_

"Stan! Hey! Earth to Stan!" He was interrupted by a waving hand in front of his face, probably attached to the arm of his girlfriend, Wendy Testaburger. "Are you even listening to me?"

It snapped him out of his stupor. He shook his head slightly, blinking his eyes to focus better on the world before him. They found the glossy pages of the math book. They found the long division problem they'd been working on for the last fifteen minutes, as he zoned out time after time.

The very sight of math made his stomach sick. He let out a long, draining groan.

"Uggghhh . . ."

Wendy touched the inside of his elbow and shook his arm. "Are you okay? You've been acting funny all night!" When he didn't answer, she jolted him harder. "_STAN!"_

"Oh. Sorry. I'm okay," He mumbled, wincing slightly as his head connected with the wall. It seemed to bring everything back to a hard, distinct reality; and Kenny was nothing but a distant problem, now. A distant problem that he'd love to fix, but he couldn't. It was _impossible. _Not while he was with the girl of his dreams-- a girl that he, usually, _loved _spending time with. Tonight, he felt he could have lived without her.

He could see her looking at him from the corner of his eye, concern written in her expression. It made him feel nice, in some deep, impenetrable region of his body.

"Are you sure you're okay? Are you tired? I can't keep your attention. I usually always can,"

Stan shook his head slightly, again, and managed to look at her. When he saw her, he smiled, despite what he would have wanted or expected to happen; all this time, and she still had the same effect on him. But it was okay now. Despite the past of sweetness and devastating heart-break their particular romance held, there was one distinct thing about it that had changed dramatically, and for the _better--_ his tendency to puke on her when things got out of hand. He wascelestially grateful for that little change. Had it not, he had a feeling he wouldn't be lying there with her right now.

"I'm fine, Wendy. I'm just not feeling math tonight. It's not my favorite subject. I have to be inspired,"

Wendy returned the smile, but her eyes still held the slightest twinge of worry. He could tell by looking at her that she was tired, and it made him feel bad that she felt obligated to help him. But he hadn't been doing so well in school, lately. Ever since the coming of his powers and the frequently sleepless nights that came with them, rest had become his highest priority on the ladder. Math was practically last. And as he sat here now, worrying about Kenny and the possible death of innocent Butters, he still couldn't get it to matter much to him.

And it really didn't. Compared to the other things stacked up on his plate, he considered math a sad stab at a cruel joke.

"So I take it you aren't inspired? You've been looking around the room the whole time I've been talking. Barely paying attention at all," Wendy said, thumbing through the math book in front of them. _Filling so many pages with bullcrap, _Stan thought, _Seems like an awfully sad waste of trees. _"Would you rather move onto something else? We can do social studies, or something?"

"Nah, math's okay. It's what I'm doing the worst in," _And the easiest to let my mind wander through. _"We can keep going, until you're ready to stop. Mom said we have until midnight. She'll do anything to keep my grades up,"

Wendy grinned tiredly. She moved herself to the sitting position, obviously trying to alleviate some of the exhaustion. Another thick wave of pity washed through Stan. He sat up with her, feeling as if it took every store of energy in his body. Feeling as if there were lead weights hanging from every limb.

_Maybe I'll just pass out. _Then _I might get some rest. _He stifled a heavy yawn.

"Let's talk about it," Wendy said through her own yawn.

"Talk about what? The math problem?" Stan asked, through the thick confusion that came with his exhaustion.

"No," She replied, flipping her own math book closed. Stan looked at her hand resting on top of the hard plastic cover. _This _was unusual. Usually if there was a text book closing, _he _was doing it, in a fit of hurried, exasperated frustration. To see _her _do it was a new degree of odd.

"We're not going to talk about the math problem. We're going to talk about what's distracting you so much lately," Wendy said, sounding set and determined despite the late hour. "There's no point in continuing otherwise,"

Stan sighed. He looked down at the long division problem resting in front of him, studying the eraser remnants and small sections of roughed-up, destroyed paper. It was covered in numbers of both he and Wendy's handwriting, but mostly Wendy's; when doing math, she was better at show than tell.

"I don't know if I can tell you," He said honestly, lifting the cover of his math book. _Let it go. Just let it go._

"And why? Why not? We have until midnight. Three hours," Wendy responded, pointing to the large red numbers on his alarm clock. Stan's gaze darted to them helplessly. And she was right. 9:00, right on the nose. He'd never wanted to smash something so badly in his entire life. "I don't think I've ever seen you so distracted. And it's been lasting for a couple of days,"

_Just a couple of days? _He thought, looking everywhere but at her face. At the football on his nightstand. At the poster of John Elway hanging by his closet. _You've only noticed it a couple of days? I guess I _have _been doing a pretty good job of hiding it. _

"_Stan," _She said firmly.

He turned and looked back at her. He wasn't able to look at her deep brown eyes long; his own soon fell to her lap, where she had placed the discarded math book. Good thing she wasn't demanding contact with his eyes. He wasn't sure he'd be able to provide her that.

He wasn't sure what to say outside of everything. And saying _everything . . . _Would it be too much for her to handle?

"Wendy, I . . ." He began, but stopped short.

"You what?" Her voice sharp. Relentless. _Oh, damn._

"I . . ." He moved his eyes to his own math book, began shuffling through the pages. It served as a nice diversion from the awkward-ness of trying not to look at her face. "I don't know if I can . . ."

"I don't like seeing you this way, Stan. It's too weird. It makes me feel like there's something very important you aren't telling me. I mean, I wouldn't mind if it was something that wasn't bothering you so much, but it obviously _is, _and so . .."

"But it's okay. You don't have to worry about it. Don't make it your problem," _And _please _let it go. _He flipped past fractions, past integers and decimals, past things Garrison would never find the time to teach.

_Maybe I should talk to Kyle, _He thought, ignoring the heated air passing between he and his girlfriend. _Maybe I should go to the bathroom, project to his room and talk to him about this. About Kenny._

"But it _is _my problem. Because I think I know what's wrong. And I think I can help," Wendy said, breaking through his precious daydream.

"But, dude, it's not . . ." He flipped another layer of pages through his fingers, smelling the vague odor of old, over-used paper. "It's not something that I want to . . . _OWW!"_

A stray paper projecting from the edge of the book's pages caught the tip of his finger, slicing down the middle in a perfectly painful little paper cut. The pain was exquisite and, thankfully, distracting. He snapped the finger up from the book and popped it into his mouth, his eyes prickling as saliva entered the wound.

"Damn it! That hurt!"

Wendy's eyes crossed with concern. She leaned forward and grabbed his wrist, urging the finger from his mouth with a small burst of wetness. The finger throbbed and burned, but Stan couldn't have cared less. He was just thankful for the distraction.

"Here. Let me see," She said, taking his hand, forcing him to lean and prop himself with his free arm. He was suddenly struggling not to fall on his face and bite blanket, but at least it had deterred her attention. At least she was no longer asking questions.

She gave the finger an appraising glance, about a moment long. When she looked back up at him, her eyebrows had softened slightly.

"I'll fix it," She said quietly.

He looked into her eyes. There was something he should say here, wasn't there? Something he should say as her _boyfriend, _as a guy who was supposed to protect her?

_But if she wants to do it, I can't do anything about it, _He thought, still looking at her face. Suddenly more scared for her than he'd ever been. _I can't tell her no. I can't possibly explain the risks. Not if I can't even tell her how worried I am about Kenny._

His lack of speech seemed to be enough confirmation for Wendy. She firmly took his smarting hand and enveloped it gently between hers, to where he could feel the sweltering heat of her skin. Unusually warm, he thought. Not normal, unless she were sitting directly in the sun.

"I've been getting better at it," She said softly as the warmth between her palms spread to his entire hand, making it tingle. The pain from the paper cut ebbed and died, leaving a pleasant blankness in its wake. He felt a strange sensation, like the teensiest amount of suction, traveling down his skin as the opening gradually closed.

He swallowed. The fear that choked his throat at that sentence, at _I'm getting better at it, _was nearly unreal.

"Getting . . . Better?"

"Yes. I've been practicing. Little things, first; if I cut myself, I'd fix it. If I bumped into something, got a bruise . . . I'd heal that, too,"

He nodded. Watched her hands over his, as the tingle and the heat began to fade. He couldn't believe the off-beat casualty to the words she was saying. As if he hadn't just told her the unimaginable danger this gift would put her in, if she didn't keep it to herself.

The heat and the tingle vanished. Smiling, she released his hand, setting it carefully back into his lap as if she'd fixed a prized antique. He couldn't stand the pride he saw in her expression. It made him feel like a failure.

"There. All fixed," She said happily, bouncing back away from him to sit against the wall. She smiled at him, cheerfully, as if expecting him to be just as happy. She could never know the sour dread she'd just forced him to taste. "It doesn't hurt anymore, does it? One-hundred-percent healed,"

Stan picked up the finger and turned it around over and over, looking for the little red line. And it wasn't there. She _had _healed it. Flawlessly.

As if he'd expected otherwise.

"Wendy . . ." He moaned, dropping the hand back to his lap. Aw, damn it, why couldn't he just say _no, _for once? Just tell her, _like a man, NO, _you can't do it? You can't use this thing that will attract death to you like a magnet, and you _absolutely cannot _use it when you aren't around me? "Wendy, I thought I . . ."

"You told me not to use it, Stan, but I don't understand why," She retorted, her voice firm enough to make him look up. She was holding him with her eyes, which were bright enough to bring his skin ablaze. It was times like these that he knew why he never told her no-- because it wouldn't matter. The word meant nothing to her. "Why won't you let me use something that could help you so much? That could help _all _of you so much?"

He looked away from her. In the crisp white of the sheets he could see images of the last battle, in his mind . . . That last battle in which Kenny had lost his life. He'd gained it back, oh yes, but the rest of them had to spend _days _in the hospital just to avoid losing_ theirs_. He remembered Cartman's arm, and the way the bones had jutted grotesquely from the skin. Butters' back. It'd been burned so badly that the skin had began to bubble. And Kyle had hit his head so hard that he'd near fallen into a coma.

All of those things could have been correctedimmediately, if Wendy had been there. She could have used her gift, helped them out, and halted a coming hospital stay. She might have even prevented the phobia that had suddenly developed in Kyle.

But seeing her there, in that field of fire and flying rocks, made Stan's heart ache. If she were to get hurt, could she heal _herself_? And if she were to slip just a step farther in, to, say, _die, _could he ever live with himself afterward?

No. He didn't think so.

And so she had to stay away. And none of the others could know; _especially _Kyle.

"You aren't answering me, Stan!" Wendy hissed, her voice becoming louder. Stan snapped out of his daydream, halfway thankful to be deterred from that image of his own friends' blood and gore. "Why can't we just tell them what I can do?" "Because it's not that simple," He fired back, surprised to hear that his voice had become just as firm as hers. Just as _venomous_. And he was equally surprised that he didn't feel like backing down, either. "Do you think I can just walk up to them one day, and tell them that not only are we _not_ the only ones that can do stuff like this, but that I've told someone else all the things we _promised _to keep secret? Do you think they'd just _handle _it?"

Wendy fell briefly silent. Her gaze fell toward her lap, making every string of Stan's heart shout out in misery. It was hurting her, keeping this. And it was hurting him too, but it was better to see her hurt and out of the way than happy and in danger. To publicize her power would be the same as _putting _her in danger. The more who knew, the more her chances were of being found out by those who didn't _need _to know. Lord knew he had proof. The moment he and his friends had discovered _their _strange talents, it hadn't been long before lunatics had begun crawling out of the woodwork, wanting their heads on a stick.

_It's better this way, _He thought, still looking at Wendy with earnest eyes. _Finally _feeling like that cliché, oh-so-protective boyfriend. _Better for _all _of us._

"But I already know what you guys can do," Wendy protested. Her voice was calm and quiet, now, the perfect antithesis to that hissing viper-speak of before. At the sound, Stan's heart twisted like a rag. "I know that you can move things. Without touching them. You showed me,"

Stan nodded. Regret hit him like a wave, threatening to crush him. "Yeah. I did,"

"And I know that Kyle can freeze things. And also blow things up, but you told me he's afraid of it. You told me _everything,"_

He nodded, again. _Damn, what the hell was I thinking that day?_

"And Kenny sees the future. Butters can make force fields. Cartman can teleport, for whatever good it does him. And I know _all _of this. _Every single bit,"_

Somehow, Stan knew where it was going. The same direction it had gone from about three minutes ago till now, if he wanted to set his watch and warrant on it. Why couldn't she be a part of them, she was going to ask. Why couldn't he just let her in, tell the other guys what she could do, and make her secret public?

"I think they should know about me, Stan," Wendy repeated, looking at him with eyes a small degree away from pleading. "I think we should tell them, so they know that I can help,"

He was silent. He looked at her and she looked at him, both of their eyes dampened by the cloud of deep emotion. Hers, by misunderstanding. His, by fear of her life. And the longer this went on, the more that fear would grow, until it consumed him so much that it became paranoia. Was that not what had happened to Kyle? Why he was afraid to even move his hands?

Stan was taking in a breath, preparing to suck in his pride and deliver a firm '_NO', _when he heard a commotion outside his doorway. It came from the hall, down the path that led from bathroom to bedroom door, and provided a well-needed distraction from the situation at hand.

It was the sound of two voices. One of which made him feel like groaning with displeasure; the other of which made his heart soar.

"What are you, Kyle? Some kind of a fag? _Gahd!"_

"Shut up, fatass! It's _your _fault! When you said you had to 'touch' me, I didn't think that meant you'd _engulf _me with your rolls!"

Stan's head snapped toward the doorway. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wendy's shoulders slump considerably, and her own gaze turn that way. Two pairs of footsteps grew closer to the door, one of them heavy and shuffling, the other light and hurried. The door knob revolved slowly, the harsh light sending sharp reflections off the brass.

"Kyle," Stan had time to say under his breath.

The door creaked open, with an exaggerated care that indicated a fear of discovery. In came the very face he'd been expecting to see, followed by the one he _had _to see to make this all possible-- the face of Kyle Broflovski, followed by the fat, unhappy one of Eric Cartman.

"Sorry about this, Stan," said Kyle, speaking in a low tone, obviously trying to keep Stan's parent's from hearing. Stan supposed he had to be thankful for that, but what were they doing here? Hadn't they been put to bed? "I wouldn't have bothered you, but Cartman sort of assaulted me in my bathroom. Asshole,"

He looked up at Wendy. From the distinct glance that crossed his eye, Stan could tell his best friend was slightly annoyed at her presence.

"Hey, Wendy," He said lowly, nearly in a growl.

Wendy blinked at him, clearly stunned. "Hey, Kyle,"

After giving her a small smile in return, he flickered his eyes back to Stan. He didn't look angry, or at least, not at he or Wendy; but he _did _seem tired, and just a little irked. Stan had a pretty good idea that the reason for these feelings was the blob standing directly behind him, clad in only his pajamas and a single sock.

_Of _course _it has to be Cartman. Kyle would never do something this risky without a good cause, _Stan thought, looking at both of his friends in turn with great confusion. _So either this is Cartman just being a jerk, or Kyle hearing something out of Cartman that he _thinks _could be really important._

_Probably a little of both._

Before he could open his mouth to ask who or why or _what the hell they were doing here, _Kyle spoke up. He kept his fingers locked tightly behind his back, his narrow shoulders appearing hollow and bony.

"Do you have time to talk to Cartman? I know you're pretty busy," His eyes looked up and found both math books, closed and thrown carelessly to the side. He slightly smiled at this, but it appeared hasty and distraught. This whole _situation _appeared hasty and distraught. Just why would Kyle go out of his way to help Cartman? "I'm not sure what this is all about, so I don't know if it can wait or not, but--"

"What the hell, Kyle? No. It can't wait," Said Cartman, his piggish voice cutting unpleasantly into the scene. He stepped forward and pushed past Kyle, who nearly fell due to the odd center of balance his body had with his arms locked behind his back. Stan made a mental note of this odd behavior, in order to ask Kyle about it later-- but he had an idea it had to do with the phobia.

By the way Wendy was looking at Kyle, he could tell she'd made that very same generalization. A cold sheet seemed to fall over his heart.

"All right, dude. What is it?" He asked, gulping down a lump.

Cartman gestured at Wendy rudely. "Get rid of the bitch first. We need to talk business,"

Stan heard Wendy intake a sharp breath, and turned to her before things could get ugly. They _would _get ugly, if he let her tongue fly. And he very well would have, had the issue of his parents overhearing not been a part of the deal. Cartman's disrespect of her was totally uncalled for. And totally _stupid, _considering the benefits her magic could have for him. It was times like these that the temptation of letting Wendy's secret go became almost too much to bear. It was amazing to Stan that he had managed to hold it in even _this _long.

When he looked at Wendy's face, a cold dash of pity tried to stab at his heart. He fought it back quickly, reminding himself briskly of the possible consequences of her secret being told.

"Maybe . . . We _should _call it a night," He said apologetically, trying to keep his eyes on hers. He wanted so strongly to look down at his lap that the force felt like strings pulling at his eyeballs, but he somehow managed. _Somehow._

Wendy's body tightened. Anger, he was sure. "Oh. Really?"

Stan lost the fight and looked at his lap. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the unfortunate surge of emotion that tried to consume him. Cartman would get it for this. Oh, boy, would he.

"Yeah," He said, nodding weakly. "Really,"

Wendy didn't move immediately. She simply stared at him a moment, with a static gaze fit to scorch the skin right off his bones. He could feel the stares of Kyle and Cartman adding onto the weight, as well. He knew they-- or at least, _Kyle--_ didn't intend to make him feel horrible, but he thought he might've felt better if he would've been flattened by a cement truck.

Wendy grabbed her math book and jumped off the bed. She did so with an angry snappiness, hitting the floor so forcefully that it made the lamp shake.

"Okay. Fine. I'll leave," She said, beginning to walk haughtily to the door. Stan was paralyzed, able to only look after her with a sad, pathetic stare. His heart felt about the size of a raisin. "I guess I'll see you on Monday. Your _friends _will probably take up your weekend,"

Stan continued to stare after her, absolutely sure he wouldn't be able to move. However, as soon as she left the room, he found the courage to leap off the bed and run after her. Cartman and Kyle stared after him curiously, but he didn't care. There was something he had to say to her.

He grabbed her shoulder just as the door closed. Much farther down the hall and they would have been able to see his parents, relaxing in front of the television downstairs. They had to keep their voices low, but of course she knew that. Nevertheless, he took her hand and dragged her just a bit farther away from the staircase, toward the bathroom in which Cartman and Kyle had definitely made their entrance.

He pulled her inside, and shut the door. Her brows were crossed angrily, but she stayed eagerly enough.

"Don't think I'm doing this just to snuff you, Wendy," He said softly, listening for eavesdropping feet beneath the door. Those feet would be heavy, loud, and belong to one named Eric Cartman . . . But he heard none. Probably due to the efforts of Kyle, whose friendship skills seemed beyond compare at the moment. Bless him.

"It may seem like I'm being a jerk here, but there are things going on that you have no idea about. Things where we could get _hurt,"_

******************************************************************

Kyle watched the door after his best friend's leave, feeling defeated and useless in the empty, stress-filled room. Eric Cartman stood beside him, ear pressed to the door to pick up a note of the conversation. Kyle had never felt more like trashing him. He would have very well done it, could he move his hands-- but in his current mood, they might very well throw explosions instead of punches.

_Hell, it would be enough to just freeze him. To make a statue out of him, so that when Stan comes back _he _can throw the punches._

But the thing was, he couldn't do that anymore, either. Used to, when using his powers, he'd been able to freeze without throwing explosions quite easily; and now, with the coming of his fear, the line between both actions had been blurred and almost dissipated. In other words, freezing held just as much risk.

_But what he said to her was so uncalled for, _He thought, simmering with anger. Once again, he was gritting his teeth, despite the mini headache that had already formed in thick bands around his jaw. _Not just because he said it to her, but because of Stan. He was willing to throw her out just to listen, and that fat bastard had to . . ._

He heard a _click _as Cartman touched the doorknob. Kyle whirled around to him, raising his hands to his chest.

"You open that door and I swear to Abraham I'll blow your head off," He snarled, aware with a certain amount of fear that he was completely serious.

Cartman blinked at him, his hand still touching the door knob. After a moment this expression of disbelief morphed into a sneer of derision, and his eyes twinkled with their age-old meanness.

"Oh, will you? That's odd. I seem to remember you being a little pussy, and too afraid to do it. You won't,"

Anger flared at Kyle like a fire, licking at his ankles. He flexed his fingers.

"Do you really want to try me, asshole?" He hissed, looking at Cartman through a sheet of red. _"Take your hands off the damned doorknob,"_

Cartman's look of mockery gradually subsided as Kyle's seriousness rang true with his head. He lowered his hands slowly to his sides. His face carried a look of pain, pitiful at his defeat.

"Okay, okay. _Gahd," _He mouthed, stepping away from the door and jumping up to sit on Stan's bed. "Put those things away before you hurt somebody,"

Kyle hesitated for a moment before tucking his hands behind his back again. He certainly felt safer with them out in front of him, but it wasn't to say the same for Stan's bedroom. _Or _Cartman, much as he would have liked to watch his guts splatter the walls.

The rest of the time before Stan's return was trademarked by dead silence. When the door finally opened and he came back in, minus the girlfriend, his cheeks were red with what could have been embarrassment or anger. Just as a wild guess, Kyle estimated it was the latter. He could think of no reason why Wendy would embarrass Stan, unless she kissed him or something; and judging by the girl's face when she'd stormed from the room, he sort of doubted that had happened.

"Hey, dude. Is everything all right?" Stan looked up from the floor, his eyes burning bright with wild blue fire. Yep. _Definitely _anger. It was scary in Stan's eyes, knowing the things they could do. It took much negotiation for Kyle to remind himself that, except for a few minor slip-ups, Stan had complete control over his talents.

"All right with us, I guess," He said flatly, glaring at Cartman. "But not with Wendy. Thanks a lot, Cartman,"

Defeating Kyle's expectations, Cartman said nothing in retort to this. He supposed that it had something to do with common sense, and despite how much of an idiot Cartman could be, he was _definitely _using it now. Any moron could see that Stan would have thrown him through the window if Cartman had said anything to further ignite his feelings.

"Was she really that mad?" Kyle asked, still confused as ever about the inner workings of the female mind.

Stan ignored the question. "I'm sort of glad you guys came when you did-- I was planning on projecting over to your place, Kyle, after Wendy left. I'm just so worried about Kenny and Butters . . . I couldn't even concentrate,"

He moved past Kyle and jumped up onto his bed, sitting as far away from Cartman as possible. He gave a deep, husky sigh, and hugged the bedrails morosely. Kyle felt a brief prick of irritation.

_Oh, great. When Stan has problems with Wendy, we play hell getting through to him. _

"But Kenny said he didn't think it would happen tonight, right?" he asked loudly, trying to break through the fog. "I mean, he obviously thought something _might _happen, because he's camping outside Butters' window all night, but he said we probably had a couple of days to prepare," Stan didn't immediately respond. Kyle felt nervousness overtake him, filling his stomach with butterflies. "_Right?"_

"Yeah, he said he didn't _think _it would happen tonight. But I just get this . . . _feeling. _You guys feel it too, right?"

Kyle said nothing. _No, I didn't _feel _anything. I felt _tired, _until Cartman decided to come and kidnap me. _He shook his head.

He was surprised to see Cartman nod shallowly, as if embarrassed by the fact. It was the first time that night he wasn't completely enraged by something the fatass had done.

"You feel it too, Cartman?" Stan asked. He brightened up somewhat, clearly excited by the fact that he wasn't the only one.

Cartman didn't speak up immediately, which was no surprise to Kyle. But when he _did _speak, his voice sounded faint and terrified . . . Two things that he was _not _used to hearing come out of this particular mouth. But then he remembered his encounter with Cartman in the bathroom, and many blank spaces started to fill.

_Why do you need to talk to Kenny? _He remembered asking. And what had Cartman said?

_It's none of your business, Kyle._

_Ah-hah. _So fatass was embarrassed to admit it.

Cartman took his hands from his lap, and studied the palms. He looked at them as if he were reading a letter, his eyes squinted just slightly to make out rough letters. Like a palm-reader, Kyle thought. One of those spillers of hogwash who operated in a carnival tent beneath dim lights, with a crystal ball as a center piece.

"That's why I needed to come talk to you. Because Kenny told me to listen to my feelings . . . Gay, right?" Said Cartman, laughing slightly. Nervously.

Neither Stan nor Kyle laughed with him. Only stared, Stan with wide-eyed interest, and Kyle with a gentle, questioning curiosity. He sort of felt exasperated with his best friend, because the poor kid was so strung-out with stress that he didn't know _what _to do. And he was actually banking in on something Cartman said, which was an indication of _complete _confusion. One almost had to pity.

"No, Cartman, that's not gay at all!" Stan argued, scooting a bit closer to him. Kyle hung back-- he'd had enough experiences with the fatass to know better. "What do you mean? What did you feel?" Cartman held his palms out to Stan. Kyle had to squint to see it, but there were slight abrasions in the plump red skin, angry and swollen from lack of sanitization. They were nothing huge, but certainly 'huge' enough for Eric Cartman to cry about. As he had been forced to do earlier this fateful evening, Kyle bit the insides of his cheeks to quiet laughter.

"I didn't _feel _anything, until I kept falling down," Cartman said, as if Stan should have known it all along. He took his palms back and rubbed them along his pants. "I don't know. I fell once in the bathroom, got right back up, then fell again, and just . . . Started thinking. That maybe I should tell Kenny, or something. Don't know why. What would that poor bastard do for me?"

"Oh, nothing, except tell you what to watch for, you fat--" Kyle began, but clamped his mouth shut.

Stan shot him a quick look-- _Ssh, what are you, stupid? My parents might hear-- _and then turned back to Cartman.

"That really isn't cool, dude. I'm really worried about Kenny. He told us all to watch out, you know, and then he's over there at Butters' all alone . . . I think someone should have went over there with him,"

Cartman scoffed. "Well are you volunteering? Because besides Kyle, you're the only one that can actually do him any good. And we all know _Kyle _couldn't do it," He threw his hand at Kyle, a gesture so careless and so lacking of respect that it made him tremble with rage. "He's too afraid. No help there,"

Kyle growled with rage. He saw Stan's eyebrows furrow into a frown, but didn't think that was enough to deter him . . . Because he'd _had _it. Enough of dealing with Cartman's shit, for that night. It was time to end it.

Kyle had his muscles coiled and was ready to spring at Cartman when Stan's phone rang. The sound was high enough to prompt a curse from Stan, and to distract Kyle from his current mission.

"Aw, shit," Stan swore, snatching the phone from its cradle. "What now?"

He put the phone to his ear, said hello. Kyle flickered his gaze at Cartman and narrowed his eyes, and gave him a look that said _It's not over. _He would definitely commence in the pulverizing, after this.

Had he known he'd never get the chance, he'd have done it right then.

"Butters?" Stan said, grabbing the phone cord tightly in a hand. The urgency in his voice demanded immediate attention. Kyle dropped everything, every _thought, _and whipped his head over to Stan. He was a little surprised to see Cartman do the same.

There was a small silence.

"Butters? You're going to have to calm down. I can't understand you,"

Kyle's heart began to speed up. He saw Stan's face drop completely of color-- turn _white, _stark _white, _he noticed, something so _strange _on the face of someone so tan-- and instantly knew something was dreadfully wrong. Was it that feeling, maybe? That feeling Kenny said to listen to?

_Intuition?_

"Oh, God, Butters!" Stan shouted, apparently giving no regard to whether or not his parents might here. His voice was broken, _choked, _something his best friend of four years could instantly decipher. _Fear. _"Hold on! We're coming!"

He threw the phone. Not on its cradle-- just _threw _it. He turned to Cartman briskly, his eyes bright and wild with fear. Blazing, again. Beautiful and sapphire, even when churning with fear.

"Butters. He's being attacked," He said plainly, his glance flickering to Kyle, then Cartman. Mostly to Kyle, who felt such an awful amount of fear that passing out had become a real possibility. When had things gone so completely wrong? So completely out of control?

_When Stan convinced me to start using my powers again, _He thought, his pulse fluttering uselessly in his neck., as fast as the paranormal beatings of a hummingbird's wings. _Whenever I let the magic back in, this all started happening again, and I can't take it--_

"Touch Cartman, Kyle! We have to go!"

Cartman's eyes bulged. "Hey! Who said I'm going over there! I don't want to die!"

Stan completely ignored him. _"Come on, Kyle!"_ He bellowed.

Kyle didn't need to hear it again. His body obeyed heedlessly, like a puppet on tight strings. He could see his death rushing ahead to meet him. But he could also see _Butters', _and wouldn't that be worth it? To die protecting someone?

_But what if I accidently kill someone? What if my power goes out of control, and--_

Before Kyle could think anymore, his hand was touching Cartman's foot. After that, everything was a pleasant shade of black.

______________________________________________________________________________

Hey, guys! Sorry if the end was a little rushed there . .. But I've been trying to finish this chapter for the last week. It was a bit harder than the last two, for understandable reasons . .. Because I knew that many of you would be disappointed that Wendy turned out to be the Healer. Unfortunately, the fact of her being the Healer was one of the few things about the plot that I had planned out in my head. I would have changed it, had her being the Healer not been such a major part of the story . . . *hint hint*.

Yeah, and I know Wendy was really annoying. But I just tried to put her in character and . . . That's what comes out. Can you really blame me?

Okay, next chapter: Battle at Butters' house! You get to see the boys use their powers in the heat of battle for the first time! So exciting, and so fun to write!

See you next time for chappy 4, which will _definitely not _be short!

-Aub


	4. The Test

Hey guys! You know the drill, by now-- I'd like to give a quick thanks to all my excellent supporters, praisers, and general readers. I know there aren't many of you, at least compared to some other stories, but that has never mattered to me. Even if only _one _person was reviewing the story and wanted to see more, I'd _still _keep writing-- at least until I run out of ideas, and I don't think that'll happen. Once this mind starts going, trying to stop it is as useless as dissolving toilet paper.

Last time, we found out who the healer was. It ended with a brutal attack on Butters . . . And continues now with the resulting fight. I'll try not to make it three years long. But as long as I've been preparing to write this scene, I'm not sure how well I'll do. J

Oh, and by the bye . . . If you guys even read these things, I have a special message to relay. I'd like to give a special thanks to the one of you that dropped me a helpful PM about my punctuation (you know who you are)-- it was much appreciated, and well used. As serious of a writer as I consider myself, I try to display good English in any writing that I do, rather it be a fan fiction or one of my novels. I have tried my best to use your knowledge in this chapter, and though I might not have had much of a chance to explore it (just look at all the _shouting _in this chapter), I just want you to know that your help was well needed and appreciated.

I don't own South Park. And I did not create these powers (save for Butters'). Credit for them goes to Charmed.

So here it is: Chapter 4! Enjoy!

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Chapter 4: The Test

In the few seconds of blackness between points of teleportation, Kyle felt his mind begin to wander. It would have been stupendous if it had wandered onto thoughts of victory, happiness, or perhaps getting to keep his life-- but, of course, he could never be _that_ lucky. They wandered onto nothing but danger. Nothing but the danger he was getting plunged into _right now, _and the all too possible consequences.

He had hit his head last time. Not just hit it, but been _bashed _in it, hard enough that he remembered a feeling like his jaw had detached from his skull. And as much as _that_ was hard to forget, what had it been like during his stay in the hospital? During those long, dreary days, fading in and winking out like the sun through a blind-covered window? It was hard to say, because he remembered nothing. Nothing besides blinding, exquisite pain, and brief periods of coherence in which his awareness was blotted by the hallucinations of morphine.

_And when I finally snapped out of it, the room was covered with flowers and balloons, _He thought, feeling the ground touch beneath his feet once more. The rough carpet snagged the tips of his shoes, causing him to slightly stumble. _And my parents were there, telling me they'd almost lost me. Everybody thought I was going to die._

When the familiar surroundings of Butters' room appeared in his vision, Kyle, for a moment, was allowed to believe that this painful part of his past was well behind him. There was the teal carpet, as unscathed as always. The Lego table, sitting undisturbed next to the closet.

However, when the fog before his vision faded and reality rang in his head like a bell, he realized that that awful nightmare wasn't so far behind him.

The carpet was speckled with something. In the dark it was impossible to tell exactly what it was, but the smell in the air was heavy like iron. The Lego table had teetered onto its side, spilling colorful bricks over the floor like scattered casualties.

And it was when Kyle looked on the bed that he saw Butters. It was this sight that helped him realize for sure what the substance on the carpet was-- because Butters was covered with it. He was covered in the brightest blood he had ever saw, bright like florescent lighting, from the top of his hair to the tips of his socks. There seemed to be no single location for it, either- it simply seemed to be _there, _as if leaking from every pore on his body.

Kyle gave an unintentional gasp. Unintentional, because the air was simply _sucked _from his lungs, like a rude and unwarranted blow to the chest. It was enough to see Butters lying there on the bed, _bleeding, _but it was worse to see the condition of his force field. In the state the boy was in, it was a miracle he was still holding the thing up at _all . . . _But it was there. Flickering, but there, and sputtering like a burnt-out light bulb.

And, perhaps most horrific of all, was the man standing by Butters' bed. He stood next to the force field, his own face bloody but intact, as if waiting for it to expire. Kyle's pulse drummed in his throat when he realized that was _exactly _what the man was doing.

The man turned to face them. His features widened with surprise, with _outrage, _but Kyle was too stunned to move. Too _terrified. _He was paralyzed where he stood, his hand clamped around Eric Cartman's calf in a death-like vice, his free hand a balled-up fist buried in his lower back. He would have moved if he was able, would have done _anything _but stood there and _stared _at this man who obviously meant to deliver his death . . . But there was something about the look in his eye that froze Kyle like a statue.

_That look, it's . . . _He thought, trying to swallow through a throat that was suddenly way too dry. He was aware of the tension around him, buzzing like a beehive, but his mind seemed covered in a paralyzing shellac. _That's the look the other one gave me right before he bashed my head in. Right before he should have killed me._

Kyle's sudden paralysis was numbing and unbreakable. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Butters' attacker.

He was moving faster than Kyle could comprehend. Before he could even fulfill his natural instinct, that to raise his hands to the level of his chest, the man was running at him, his face distraught with outraged surprise. His mouth was fixed in an angry snarl.

The man yelled something. In the fog of his disillusionment, Kyle wasn't exactly sure what that something was; but the words he thought he heard spiked cold terror into his heart.

"The exploder!" He heard, as the man's long-legged stride brought him closer and closer. "It's the exploder! Get him before he--"

_Get him? _He had time to think. _Why, that would mean there was more than--_

"Get out of the way, Kyle!" He heard. The next thing he knew Stan had jumped in front of him and knocked him backward, spilling him painfully onto his backside. He bit his tongue, but the pain was numb-- he could only focus on Stan, and how he'd suddenly appeared in front of him. How he'd jumped in the path of a man who clearly had murder on his mind.

"Stan!" He shouted, unable to do anything but reach for him. "Stan, no!"

"Get Butters out of here, Cartman! Before his force field runs out!" Stan yelled behind him. He swung an arm and, not surprisingly, the man charging him went flying backwards, toward a window which seemed all too willing to receive him.

Kyle turned to where Cartman had been standing. Not surprisingly, the fatass was gone; probably teleported away to the safety of his bed and the blessings of fresh Cheesy Poofs. Not that it mattered, now. As the sharp ringing of glass breaking into a million pieces tore through his head like a blade, he realized without hesitation the thing he had to do-- without Cartman here, it was a no-brainer.

_I have to get to Butters, _He thought, pulling himself to his feet. The man that had attacked was gone, but Stan still stood protectively in front of him. His heart swelled with love for his brave, brave friend. _I have to get to Butters, and get him out of here. Before someone else attacks._

Kenny's whereabouts never once struck his mind. He dashed past Stan to the sprawled-out form of moaning, bleeding Butters, feeling as if his feet were a blur beneath him. The force field was, impressively, still up . . . But flickering ever stronger now, and shrank to a width that was barely more than a film over Butters' body. It was still more than enough to keep someone out.

Realizing this, Kyle shouted to Butters. He could only hope the boy wasn't completely unconscious.

"Put your shield down, Butters! Put it down or I can't get to you!" He yelled, seeing the blessings of the bed closer and closer. In the intensity of the darkness and the flurry of his panic, he seemed to be moving in slow motion . . . But the glint of the moonlight on the brass grew larger and more defined.

He saw the force field flicker one last time, and then disappear entirely. Whether Butters had intended it or not didn't matter; it was what he needed just the same.

"Hold on!" He shouted, grabbing hold of the bed rail. "Hang on, I'm--"

Stan's voice suddenly boomed from behind him. It took no more than a second for everything to go all to hell . . . But in that very second he had time to wonder why Stan's voice sounded that way. So _loud, _and so _scared._

"Kyle! Look out behind you!"

He stopped immediately. Butters' form on the bed seemed so close and yet so far, like a treasure dedicated to the Gods.

"Stan? What's the--MMPH!" Before he could get another word out, there was a hand clamped over his mouth. The other was wrapped strongly around his chest, so tight and so hard that it felt more like an iron bar. He had to look down to convince himself it was actually an _arm_. It was unnaturally cold and firm, so much so that it sprang goose bumps to his flesh.

His hand was jerked off the bedrail faster than he could comprehend. He immediately tried to scream, panicking as his mouth filled with ice-cold, salty flesh.

"MMMPPPH!"

His captor jerked him around. His heart sank when he saw the reason for Stan's _warning _rather than _action. _

There was another man holding his best friend. He was _big, _probably the biggest man he'd ever seen . . . And he had Stan's arms twisted behind his back, wrenching them in a way that was obviously painful. Tears collected in his best friend's eyes, threatening to spill on a dime.

The horror of seeing his best friend in agony wasn't even the worst of it. It was also the knowing that, with his arms twisted behind his back, Stan was virtually helpless to use his power.

Kyle's thoughts didn't even come near using his own.

He wrenched his head to the side. He managed to dislodge his captor's hand, despite the raw strength of it.

"Let go of him, you asshole!" He shouted, struggling for all he was worth. He gathered his strength and jumped against the holding arms as hard as he could, but to no avail. "Let him go right now or I swear I'll--"

_Blow him up, _Kyle thought, still wiggling like a wet noodle. Still struggling in vain, feeling his lungs burn from exertion. _I'll blow the asshole up._

The normal fear was absent. He raised his hands and gestured, not thinking once about the possible consequences.

There was a sound like a firecracker exploding; That sharp little burst of noise that you can't expect no matter how many times you experience it. He felt his captor jerk, startled, against him, but Kyle was incapable of doing any such thing. He was incapable of doing _anything _except concentrating on where his explosion would land.

_Right in the center of his head. Please, _He thought, feeling traitor tears burning behind his _own _eyes. Stan was in the bottom of his vision, struggling and cursing, but he paid him no attention. It would only risk the explosion landing on _him. Split his head like a watermelon. Make him let Stan go._

The explosion erupted right next to the man's head, blasting Butters' doorframe into thousands of tiny wooden splinters. Kyle squinted as chips of wood stung his cheeks, his eyes, his arms. The heat from the explosion, sweltering and humid, pelted against his face.

His target was not a part of this well-done piece of work. He jumped aside just in time, making Stan scream as his shoulders ground in their sockets.

"_Oww! Son of a bitch!"_

"Stan!" Kyle shouted, reaching for him. He readied for another explosion, once again not taking the time to be afraid. He could feel the power building inside of him with his urgency, so big and so tempting that it couldn't be ignored. By the time it was gone, both these assholes were going to have sludge for brains.

_If I could just concentrate, really hard, I'm sure I could aim right, _He thought, eyes darting to and fro from the struggling Stan to his rattled captor. _If I could just calm down enough to--_

"Restrain his hands, you moron! He can't use his powers if you restrain his hands!" Stan's captor shouted, dragging Stan over closer to Butters. It was unclear what this man had in store for them, but it was quite clear to Kyle that he planned on at least snapping Stan's neck. One of his hands was resting on his best friend's cheek, the other still struggling to hold the thrashing arms.

"Restrain his hands, and then kill him! _Now!"_

_No! _Kyle thought, struggling even harder. But it was too late; he felt those iron, stone-cold hands clamping on his wrists, squeezing down so hard that the bones ground together like little rocks. He attempted to flex his hands through this, _trying _to set off an explosion or at _least _a freeze before his captor got a good grip, but it was suddenly so painful to do so that he could do nothing but scream. One of his captor's hands made its way to rest on his jaw, in a heavy, sure way that made Kyle certain of what he intended to do.

_Break my neck, _He thought, his pulse buzzing rapidly in his throat. _He's going to break my neck, just like the other's going to do to Stan . . . And I won't even have time to scream._

His natural-born stubbornness flared into his head. This was followed by an immediate _refusal _to lose his life, and a burning persistence to save Stan's.

He twisted his arms to the side. It was painful as hell, but he was mildly flexible and had the advantages of being young. He doubted the bozo behind him could keep up-- that is, if the man was _human. _Certain things about this evening were beginning to make him doubt that.

"Let go of me, you asshole!" He demanded, aware that the requests were hollow and useless. That didn't matter. It was all a part of the fight, and he did _not _plan on giving up. At least not until he was dead.

And dead he would soon be, if he couldn't get away.

Through the struggles, he tried to pay attention to Stan's situation. It surprised him when he saw Stan not struggling, as he himself was doing with every fiber of his being; but being quiet and calm, his head dropped toward the floor in every semblance of defeat. It was something so unlike Stan that Kyle, for a moment, believed he was hallucinating. It could have been the rapid pulse drumming in his head, he thought, or maybe the rough weariness that constant struggles were putting on him. But when he focused on the image longer, keeping his eyes fixed all the time through his writhing and tugging, it never changed. Stan was completely still.

Stan had _given up._

Kyle gave a powerful lurch against his captor's arms. In the heat of his passion he nearly succeeded in breaking free, only to be stopped by the collar of his shirt.

"Stan! " He shouted desperately, feeling himself being tugged ruthlessly back towards his captor. His wrists screamed and cried. The collar of his pajamas dug uncomfortably into the base of his throat. All of this was unacknowledged in the horror of seeing Stan so _accepting. _"Stan, don't give up! He's going to kill you! He's--"

His screams stopped in his throat for two reasons. One, because his captor kneed him in the middle of the back so hard that his lungs shriveled into what felt like little prunes; and two, because Stan had looked up from the floor.

What struck Kyle first was the quality to his best friend's gaze. It was a quality not normally present in this particular set of eyes; a quality that did not belong in the kind-hearted, give-you-the-shirt-off-my-back persona of Stanley Randall Marsh. The bright blue eyes, normally kind and twinkling, were flat and dead. In the backs of them, buried deep like some forgotten secret, were the slight stirrings of hostility and rage.

What struck Kyle next was where he had seen the look before. It had been about a month ago, he was sure; before that awful in-and-out month in the hospital in which his life had been juggled by the precision of several well-trusted machines. It had been just before he'd hit his head and almost died; just before everything had went all to hell, and taken the five of them with it.

_Last time, when that look crossed his eyes, things just went _flying, Kyle thought, his skin suddenly sweating beneath the unnatural frigidness of his captor's body. _He didn't even have to move his hands. It's like he lost control, and things just went--_

"Watch out!" Kyle heard one of the men yell. He couldn't tell which-- it seemed as if he were listening from miles away. "His eyes! Something's happening to his eyes!"

As if in a confirmation of this, Stan squinted. Not significantly; just enough so that it seemed as if he were reading uncomfortably small print. In a welcome confirmation of Kyle's suspicion, he felt a vivacious tug at his collar as the hand holding him there was ripped viciously away, taking a piece of the cloth with it.

Raw surprise defeated his ability to think. It was only when he felt the hands at his wrists being forced away as well, twisting the bones and forcing a moan out of him, that he realized what was truly happening.

_He's losing control, _He thought, feeling another dramatic yank at his wrists. He himself was jerked back slightly at this, but a few of the attacker's fingers slipped from the grip. He hissed with pain. _All of the fear has finally caught up to him, and his body is acting out in the will to survive. Just like it did last time._

He thought about the things those eyes had done last time, when things had become their worst. There was Cartman, being flung about half a mile and breaking his arm in the fall. The truck that had somehow been turned over, and moved about five yards down the block. Not to mention the several small animals that had been splattered against various hard surfaces.

However, horrific as the memory was, there was only one thing Kyle could think.

This loss of control was very welcome. And it couldn't have come soon enough.

He felt one last tug and his wrists were free. He felt his captor go flying, and he went part of the way with him . . . Only to thump to the ground halfway through the journey. The man kept going, and judging by the large _thump _he heard take place on the wall behind him, he could guess he finished it.

His wrists were suddenly freed and useable. They throbbed and screamed, each individual bone complaining in simultaneous symphony about the impossible angles they'd been bent into. Were they broken? He wasn't sure; he only knew that he was about to find out. Because there was no way they were going to be able to get out of this unless he did.

Before he could even manage to pull himself from the floor, he heard Stan's captor. The voice was low and slightly bitchy, but the message still impacted him the same.

"Oh, you little _bastard," _He hissed violently, grabbing Stan again by the jaw. This time hard enough that Kyle heard his best friend whimper, despite the danger of his current state. "I'm going to snap your neck like a--" Kyle never got to hear _what _he was going to snap Stan's neck like. At the instant of hearing the other man speak, his instincts took over for him.

"No!" He shouted, shooting up from the floor. Before a thought struck his mind his hands had shot out in front of him, and the man's head vaporized in a pretty shower of purple and burgundy-red.

_I hit him, _Kyle thought, staring at the thin pink mist with something like wonder glittering in his eyes. It picked up darts of stray moonlight through the shattered window, sent them off like strobe lights. _I actually hit him. I hit my target. Right on the nose._

The headless body holding Stan shuddered. The muscles relaxed slowly and the knees gave out, sending it to the floor like a puddle of sludge. It hit the ground behind him with a hollow _thu__d, _the limbs still twitching slightly as if electrocuted. Blood pumped from the stump of the neck in a dull, dreary pattern.

Somehow, it seemed oddly anti-climactic.

Kyle stared at the headless body behind his best friend until the movement stilled. By then, the attacker that had been thrown against the wall was gaining his feet, preparing to charge them again.

"Kyle!" He heard Stan yell, pointing. "Kyle, get rid of him!"

Kyle turned around. The man was bloody, his head a nest of gore and hair, but intact. And completely conscious. Not to mention gaining his feet slowly, trembling like a ballet dancer with weak knees, holding his palms out before him as if to prove a set of clean hands.

Something danced between the opened palms. Something little and scary that reminded Kyle of static electricity-- and proved the man's humanity to be nothing but a jip. This man wasn't human. He wasn't sure _what _he was, but definitely not human.

This would have been enough to excuse murder in Kyle's mind. However, when he went to raise his hands to deliver the death-giving explosion, he was terrified to feel them plastered helplessly to his sides. Not with rope, or arms, or _anything _of the solid world . . . But with the manic emerging of fear.

He could only stare at the attacker, knowing that he was supposed to do _something _but not able to wrap his mind around the _what. _He'd executed a near-perfect explosion seconds before, yes, but was that just wishful thinking? Was it just a stroke of luck, brought on by his panic and the heat of the moment?

_I could have hit Stan when I did that. And I could hit him now, too. Just like I did with Kenny, _He thought, feeling his hands creep slowly behind his back. The images of Kenny's gory death invaded his mind like an unwelcome stranger, sending awful shudders down his spine. _If I do it again, it's just tempting fate. _

"Kyle, what's the matter with you? Blow the son of a bitch to next week!" Stan squalled, becoming a little jumpier the closer the man came. He grabbed Kyle's shoulder and tugged at his shirt. "Come on!"

Kyle bunched his hands into fists. He hadn't known it was possible, but he could _taste _his heart. "I can't, Stan. I can't do it! What if I hit you?"

"Dude, you didn't before! Just _do it!"_

"No!"

The man came closer, those strange things coming from his hands leaping ever higher. Kyle had never seen such a thing before, but he had a distinct idea that if he were to touch them with those hands, they'd feel the equivalent of 50,000 volts surging through their small, underdeveloped bodies. There would be nothing left of them but charred hair and spare bits of smoking bone. If even _that. _It was questionable as to why the man hadn't used this ability before, when he had Kyle totally helpless in his grip, but it might have been a similar situation to Stan's abilities when things got out of hand. His eyes only worked as a medium when he was severely threatened or angered. Maybe this man's abilities to change his hands into sparkplugs were about the same.

However, what disturbed him more was the fact that the man was _smirking. _Not frowning in outrage as before, but _smirking._

"That's it, you little bastard. Keep those hands behind your back," He chided, advancing a little faster. Stan yelped and dragged Kyle backward, toward the far wall. But it didn't help. The man would catch them eventually, if one of them didn't do something to stop him. "Don't try to fight what's inevitable."

Stan swung an arm. The man went flying backward again, smashing hard into the wall. This time, his shoulders broke through a little, and blood dotted the air in a fine mist.

"Go check on Butters! I'll finish him off!" Stan ordered, watching the piled-up heap begin to pull itself off of the floor. It was clear that Stan's telekinetic throws weren't as effectual on him as they normally were, but they were definitely taking their toll. One of the man's pupils had clearly blown, indicating a high degree of brain damage.

_Go check on Butters. Okay. That's a good idea._

He scurried toward the forgotten bed, noting the slow, hollow movements of Butters' chest. It meant life, but probably not much of it. The boy would most definitely need a hospital within the next hour. And if _that _wasn't unpleasant enough, the nagging pain in his wrists gave Kyle the idea that _he _would need one, as well. What a pleasant, _pleasant _cycle this was becoming.

_I'm going to kick Cartman's ass, _He thought, climbing up onto the bed.

He heard the buzzing of electricity again, and Stan's grunt of exertion as he swung an arm. The man crashed into the wall again, moaning in the highest degree of pain. Just where the hell were Butters' parents? Unless this whole thing had lasted a lot shorter than he thought it had-- a possibility that was not totally mute, he thought, because things like these seemed to last a minute and feel like a mile-- his parents _surely _would have heard the commotion.

_Unless they just don't care, _He thought, scooting next to Butters.

It was relieving to finally see where the blood was coming from. Relieving, but still horrifying. Most of it was coming from his nose, a gash on his forehead, and his smashed, split-up lips, but there was a lot more that remained unaccounted for. Some could have come from the meter-long slash down his forearm. More still could have come from his right leg, which appeared roughly the same as it might if it had freshly emerged from a meat grinder.

Kyle's eyes watered as he gulped back vomit. _Uck. I just watched a man's head explode, and I can't deal with a little blood._

He began to gently shake Butters, trying to bring back his consciousness. Meanwhile, from behind him, he heard one last crash and then silence. Stan's heavy breathing was the only sound that he heard, and it sounded unhealthily labored. As if he'd been running a marathon and been forced to stop in the middle of the track, collecting himself with his hands perched over his knees.

"Damn it!" Stan wheezed. Aah, so _that _was it. The asthma. Stan might be needing a little hospital time of his own, by the time this was all over.

"Stan? Are you okay?" Kyle asked, bending down closer to Butters. Trying to listen to his breathing, but hearing nothing but little squeaks. This might just be a complication of the blood clotting his airways, but in situations such as these it was always best to assume the worst. "What happened? I don't hear him anymore."

"He got away, is what happened. Just disappeared, into thin air. He's _gone," _Stan managed to say, only to erupt into several harsh patterns of breathing after the sentence was over. He coughed a couple of times, the choked, hard little bursts that always prompted his mother to make him sit down for a while with a glass of ice water. The warning signs of a coming asthma attack . . . Or the beginning signs of a false alarm.

_Please. No asthma attacks, _Kyle thought, tilting Butters' head to free more space for breathing. _Not now. I can't do this alone. I'll go crazy._

"Sit down, Stan. You need to calm down. I think it's over now,"

_No, I don't think that at all. I think we need to get the hell _out _of here, before our luck runs out, but I _definitely _don't think it's over. _

Instead of saying this out loud, he shook Butters just a wee bit harder. The boy made a small noise-- a definite moan, if he'd ever heard one-- but did nothing more than that. There was no flutter of the eyelids. No movement of the arms.

_He needs a hospital, is what he needs. There's no way to get around it._

"Is he that bad?" Stan asked, still wheezing and choking with coughs. Kyle turned to look at him and he was clutching the base of his throat, cradling a face that was pale with blood-red cheeks. "Should I go get his parents? They'll be a little freaked out, but . . ."

Kyle looked around the room. It looked like the disaster area it had been before, when he'd been turned around and facing the music . . . Minus the splattered body that had littered the wall next to the bed. Every inch of it was gone, from the biggest part of the corpse to the smallest swatch of bone. Vanished, as if into thin air. Just like the other one had done.

_Oh, no. Let's hope he wasn't still _alive _like the other one._

Somehow, he doubted that.

Without the body littering the floor, the room still looked like a tornado had whirled through it. The picture window was completely shattered, even missing parts of the frame where the first attacker's body had been hurled through. The doorframe that had stood in the way of Kyle's first explosion and the blown-up attacker was splintered and faulted, leaving a chunk of the wall pulverized into dust. The place where Stan had repeatedly slammed attacker 2 was buckled in and bulging with insulation.

Something about the picture struck Kyle as funny. He wasn't exactly sure what it was, but he had a feeling it had to do with what Butters' parents would think as they got their first glimpses of the battle zone.

_I'm not sure _what _they'll think, but they'll find a way to link it all to him, bruised and bloody or not, _he thought, suddenly no longer seeing the humor. _I don't know how, but they always do._

Stan, still wheezing, had gained his feet. He was noticeably swaying, and still gasping for air, but apparently intended on fetching Butters' parents. Fat chance. Just by looking at his best friend, Kyle had an idea he'd die of suffocation before he even made it down the stairs.

"Dude, come here. Watch Butters," He said exasperatedly, leaping off the bed. As he passed Stan he clapped him on the shoulder, wincing as his (most likely) shattered wrist cried bloody murder at the pressure. _Shut up, _He told it, biting back tears of pain. _You'll get f__ixed eventually, but for now I need you to work. _"I'll go and get Butters' parents. The last thing we need is for you to die of an asthma attack trying to go down the stairs."

Stan, still whooping and coughing, shook his head. Fine beads of sweat had now broken out at his hairline, stabbing a cold dash of pity into Kyle's heart.

"No, dude. We need to stay together. What if another one of those guys attacks us again?"

Kyle briefly stopped to consider this. What if another of those guys _did _attack them again? And worse yet, while he was gone? With Stan in the throes of an asthma attack and Butters already half-dead, they'd be nothing but sitting ducks. Stan could probably hold the attackers at bay for a little by using his telekinesis, but how long would it be until the exertion catalyzed his asthma attack into something deadly?

Probably not long at all.

_But listen to your instincts, Kyle, _Kenny told him, from deep in his brain. He wasn't sure where Kenny had disappeared to during all this, hadn't even really _thought _of it during these last crucial minutes, to be truthful, but the muffled voice seemed louder than ever. He could do nothing but listen. _Your instincts tell you that Butters needs a hospital right away, but do they tell you anything else? Do you feel like you need to stay here with Stan?_

Kyle looked at the floor. He felt Stan touch his shoulder, apparently in concern, but he ignored it. It was a simple question. _Did _he feel like he needed to stay here? They'd just escaped the very brink of death, and he was scared and uncomfortable and every length of worried . . . But were they out of the water, yet? Or was Butters coming closer and closer to the light at the end of the tunnel?

_I've known the answer since I first approached Butters. He's dying. He needs a doctor._

That was the last of his debate on the issue.

"Stay here. I'll be back in a second," He called behind him, running for the door. Stan reached a hand feebly behind him, obviously intending to call him back, but didn't. Kyle suspected he simply didn't have the _breath. _"Watch Butters. And _stay still, _damn you,"

That was the last he heard from Stan. He ran from the door with all the speed he could muster, thanking God for the many afternoons of basketball practice. He wouldn't be playing for a long time, thanks to the pecker that had snapped both his wrists, but the shape it had broken him into had never been more useful.

****************************************************************

Slicer looked at the man in front of him with disgust wrinkling his lip. Dupree had gotten out luckier than the other two-- with his _life, _which was dully impressive, considering his weakness-- but his luck hadn't surpassed theirs by far. Looking at his blown pupil and constantly twitching mouth, instant death might have been mercy compared to the slow end he was now likely to face.

What was funny about it was that he could instantly tell where the wounds had come from. It was a no-brainer, really.

"So the mover got a hold of you, huh?" He asked, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice. Dupree's twitching, ruined face drooped in confused, insignificant anger. "Nasty little booger, isn't he?"

"Nasty, yes. But not near so nasty as the exploder. He killed Nigel practically without even looking. Blew his head right off."

Slicer nodded, trying to ignore the nervousness that cramped his gut. It was there, no matter how much he tried to ignore it . . . And flaring like a bonfire on dry wood. It wasn't uncommon for an exploder to be able to land an occasional hit or two, but at the age of _eight? _An age when most kids were scared to stray away from their mommies in the dark?

_No worries. If Dupree wasn't killed too, that's a good sign. If the brat had complete control of his abilities, he'd have sent him off to hell in the same hand basket as Nigel._

This brought a little relief . . . But not enough.

"All right. And before you die on me--" He smirked widely at Dupree's offended, violated gape before continuing-- "Did you find out about the healer? Have they met him yet?"

Dupree gave a small smile. Or, at least, what passed for a smile in his ruined face; It could have been a grimace, for all Slicer knew.

"No. They haven't met _him," _Said Dupree, his voice jumping a little with subtle excitement. His bad eye popped and rolled into his head, putting another leap on the short timeline until death. "But they've met _her. _She's the mover's sweetheart. And all too eager to help."

Slicer's heart fluttered with excitement. He couldn't help a genuine smile of relief, which washed gradually over his face like a soft blade chiseling through the toughest stone.

_Well, hell. Hallelujah. The poor bastard's saved us all. We can get rid of her, now, and end the whole damn operation. _

He stopped for a moment, smiling. Dupree seemed a bit nervous by this smile, and had every God-given right to be.

_Might as well show him a bit of mercy._

He killed him with a single dagger to the heart, thrown by a short flicker of the wrist. He died without even the slightest scream-- without even the _chance _to scream-- and his body vaporized like the head of his brother. How helpful that avenue of dying was, Slicer thought. It left such an astounding lack of messes.

And without the mess to worry about, he had only one thing. One thing besides the lack of success they'd had tonight, as his members had been destroyed by not _all _of the inheritors, but only _two . . . _one thing that made grim prospects suddenly seem a little brighter.

_The mover's sweetheart, is she? _He thought, wishing he had a photo of her as well. He didn't _need _it, but . .. He always liked to see the face of his most deliberate target. It sort of made the murder more _justified._ _If that's so, her death will have more of a negative impact on them than I'd originally thought. Once we kill her, he'll be crushed. Heartbroken. _

He smirked. Once again, he wished had a picture in front of him; but this time, one of the mover. So he could extinguish his cigarette on his young, childishly-handsome face, and imagine that it was the real thing. Hell, why not kill two birds with one stone? Might as well have the exploder's, too.

But that didn't matter anymore. Worrying about _them _didn't matter anymore.

Now, it was worrying about the _healer _that mattered.

And as sure as the sky was blue, she'd be impossible to worry about before the next three days were out.

Because her heart would stop beating, by then.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Okay, here we are, at the end of the chapter. Not as long as the last, but harder to end, because I didn't want to leave you guys in a cliffhanger . . . But sorry, my bad. I did. Please don't kill me. ;)

Okay, so I can't really say what the next chapter will be about . .. Alls I know is that Butters will be in the hospital, Kyle's wrists will be in casts and the boy's parents will _not _be happy with them. Stan's conscience will be tied in a bow, trying to defend Wendy's secret while Butters lies dying in a hospital bed . . . Though defending her secret will, in this situation, do her no good.

Will her secret be revealed in the next chapter? And where is Kenny? Stay tuned to find out!

See you next time!

-Aub


	5. The Boundaries of Trust

The hardest part is getting started. The longer I write this story, the more I realize that quote to be true-- every time I sit down to begin a new chapter, I find myself trying to run off with my tail tucked between my legs. It's not like I'm not having fun writing it . . . It's just that, like siphoning jewels from a pan-full of crap, there's always _good _beginnings and the _best _beginning. There's _good _beginnings in abundance, but the _best _beginning is a bit harder to dig up. Sometimes, I'm sure I don't find it.

And yet, when I do, I just _know _it. Because everything else starts coming out wonderful, like spun gold. Forgive me for sounding like a lunatic, but I know _some _of you understand my angle.

Anywho, I found this chapter a little harder to begin than the others. I literally stared at a blank page on my computer screen for _two days, _trying to figure out the best way to begin. And did I? I don't know. I guess that depends on you guys' opinions.

Thanks for the support, reveiwers, favoriters and story alerters. Even _PMers _that are or might be, for whatever reasons. I have received some very flattering compliments from some of you, and could not be anymore grateful. Thank you for taking the time out of your lives to drop me a word or two of encouragement.

Okay, so this chapter as I know it now is pretty much about Stan. I didn't know that before I wrote it, but it is. It is all about Stan and the struggles he faces with his conscience, on rather it is more important to keep Wendy's secret and maintain her safety or to tell her secret and maintain his friendship with Kyle. I know that Kyle is the quote 'main' character of this fic, but I felt like this chapter was necessary to show Stan's inner struggle. After all, it is the second most major conflict in the fic (next to Kyle's fear of his power).

I do not own South Park, and I did not create these powers (save for Butters'). Credit for them goes to Charmed.

Anyway, enough jabbering. Here's chapter 5 of The Inheritors: The Boundaries of Trust!

_____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 5: The Boundaries of Trust

It had seemed impossible before to feel this wretched. And now, lying in a hospital bed a mere twenty-four hours after the ordeal, groggy and well-rested from a nine-hour marathon of catch-up z's, it seemed impossible to feel _less _so. He stared at the television, but did not see. He hugged a pillow to his chest, but felt nothing, not even the unpleasant chafing of hospital detergent against his dry skin.

The only part of him that felt alive at all was his mind. And it was going endlessly like a runaway locomotive, plunging him into places darker than he ever hoped to explore.

It plunged him into the knowing that somewhere, in this very hospital, a young boy lay critically injured. He was a young boy known as Butters Stotch; a young boy that, during an unfortunate mishap of events, had found himself staring into a light at the end of a tunnel.

_Hell, more than _staring _at it, _thought Stan, turning onto his side. _He probably heard the angels singing, too. _

He adjusted his left shoulder against the uncomfortable mattress of the bed. The mattress was a sad stab at anything of comfort-- it actually felt closer to a segment of the baking hardpan that characterized the Sahara desert-- but, according to the strange technicalities of hospital law, it was supposed to make a boy who'd just suffered a moderately severe asthma attack feel better. Fat chance. He didn't think _anything _would make him feel better, unless it was the definite word that Butters Stotch would get to keep his life-- either that, or the courage to reveal a certain secret that had been eating at him for much too long.

_Not just _my _secret. _Wendy's _secret, _He thought, picturing the battered and bloody Butters in the center of his mind. Seeing his best friend's pulverized wrists, swollen to the size of two A-plus sausages, and doing nothing about it because he was too damned _scared. _Too damned much of a _coward. _If it weren't for him, Butters wouldn't have to worry about whether or not he'd get to see tomorrow morning. If it weren't for him, Butters would be _able _to worry about whether or not he got to see the next morning, because he'd be _conscious. _And Kyle would have functioning wrists, too. Because if Wendy had her own way . . .

_If Wendy had her own way, I wouldn't be in this dilemma. She'd do the gutsy thing. She'd tell them about her gift, whether it endangered her life or not, and we'd never have to worry whether or not we got out of these situations alive._

But Wendy did not have her own way, and he couldn't even _try _to say it was for any reason other than he. Prohibiting her had created a whole nest of problems that, according to Wendy herself, could be avoided. Kyle's near-death could have been solved in a second. Butters' situation _right now _could be nothing but a possibility on the horizon. And yet, somewhere in the back of Stan's mind, the oh-so-protective boyfriend cliché was raised to an ugly head, and refused to be quieted. It was the part of him that absolutely _refused _to involve Wendy in any of this stuff in _any way at all._

And, of course, Wendy didn't understand. And if he were to tell Kyle, _his best friend in the entire world, _he wouldn't understand, either.

So it was entirely Stan's ball game.

And he wasn't sure if he could handle it, anymore.

_If this were to come out some day, I could lose every body. Wendy, _and _my best friends. And what am I doing to Butters, here? What am I doing except for stealing his life away?_

He hugged the pillow up to his chest even tighter, not able to bear thinking about what came next. After all, for every cause there was an effect, for every up there was a down, blah blah blah, all that shit. Would the death of Butters be the effect? The loss of Kyle as a friend the down?

_I don't know what the hell I'm going to do, _He thought, suddenly not able to think about it anymore. A testy urge to rip and dismantle the pillow into about twenty million little pieces overtook him, but he doubted he had the strength. Lucky. He resorted to flipping onto his other side, away from the door, instead. _All I know is that I've dug myself into a hole, somehow, and I'm going to have to find my way out of it. Just like Kyle, and his phobia._

_Except, unlike Kyle, I have to find my way out of it totally alone._

As if someone trying to be wise or witty had cawed out 'Well, speak of the devil!', Stan heard about three well-defined knocks on the doorframe. He needed not turn around, to see who the knocker was-- five years of deep friendship made the gesture obsolete-- but he did it anyway, and _fast. _Not out of mystery on who the disturber was. All out of excitement on seeing his best friend for the first time since last night, and out of concern for how his injuries were healing.

And they had to be healing pretty nice, for Kyle to even be standing here. In his old coat and hat, no less, without a hospital gown in sight. So he must have been discharged already, Stan gathered. At least _that _was good news.

"Kyle!" He cried happily, sitting up in bed. There was brief protest in his lungs for the vocal projection-- brief, but ignored-- and slight soreness in his shoulder blades, but that could be expected. The bastard that had grabbed him hadn't exactly been _gentle._ "Kyle, you're okay!"

Kyle gave a wide smile and approached the bedside. At first, by the fluidity of his movement and his apparent lack of weariness, Stan thought that Kyle had walked away from their incident unhurt; but after looking closer, he noticed otherwise. His best friend was holding his arms at his sides in a queerly stiff manner, as if movement brought pain. The sleeves of his coat held peculiar bulk around the area of either wrist. These things brought an unwelcome flash of memory to Stan's mind-- The memory of seeing Kyle in the arms of that _thing, _twisting in every way possible to escape in enough time to save the both of their lives. Pretending like he hadn't heard the little snaps coming from his best friend's wrists was both absurd and delusional.

However, despite the condition of his wrists, it was relieving to see Kyle in this condition. _Very _relieving, considering the state he'd been in _last _time. It was nice that, at least for now, he hadn't taken the short end of the stick.

"Hey, dude," said Kyle, finally reaching the bedside. Without thinking about it, Stan leaped from his place and wrapped his arms tightly around his neck, giving him a brief but powerful squeeze. Kyle answered this with a slight, shocked chuckle. "I guess you feel better now. I don't think you would have been capable of this kind of . . . Strength . . . Before."

Stan withdrew from the hug, but it was admittedly hard. Seeing Kyle now was like downing a Coke after spending days in rampant thirst. How _else _were you supposed to greet the guy you'd almost died with? Not to mention, the guy who'd saved your life? With a simple 'hello'? After years of being best friends with him, it was hard to go through _anything _without Kyle by his side. And now that they'd gone through the same trauma, _together, _and fought side by side to save each other's lives, Stan felt that bond more than ever.

"Yeah, I feel great!" he replied, aware that his reply sounded a little too overenthusiastic. A little too _fake. _Truth was, he was _not_ great-- not on the inside, at least-- but making this moment about him seemed a crime punishable by death. Kyle was safe. Kyle was _standing. _Best to herald him for that. "How are you, dude? How are your wrists?"

Kyle held them out in front of him, moving his shoulders in a stiff manner that reminded Stan again of the way that man had grabbed him. It brought a bitter sort of resentment to his heart that was not entirely unpleasant-- _I wish I would have killed the fucker._

"Fractured. But that's the worst of it," said Kyle, rolling up the sleeves of his coat. He set them atop the bed as he did this, something that was obviously meant to alleviate pain, but it wasn't working well. He still winced through the entire process. "By the way they're swollen, I could have _swore _they were snapped in two, but the doctor said theyfeel worse than they are." When Kyle eventually got through the agonizing, slow business of rolling up his coat sleeves, Stan found himself looking down at two things that more resembled braces than casts. He was able to let out a sigh of relief. When expecting full-blown casts, braces were like a Godsend.

_It's like one less thing that I have to feel guilty about, _He thought, but knew it was a lie. Anything besides perfect health was subject to feeling worse than tar on the bottom of a shoe.

"It didn't take them long to take care of me. They let me go pretty much right after my parents got here, and I've been with Butters ever since," said Kyle, bunching his hands into fists. The swelling made him look like a freak with minimized hands. "He's actually not as bad as I thought." Stan felt a relieved smile grow on his face. It came at the end of an exhale, and left his shoulders slumped, his back slouched. The pillow folded ever tighter into the vice formed between his arms and knees.

"Really?" He asked, feeling another chip of guilt try to lift from his shoulders. It cracked free, raised from his body as if caught in an updraft . . . And then settled right back down in place. It left him slightly frustrated, but he knew what he had to do to make it stop. He just wasn't sure if he was willing to do it, yet. "How is he? Is he awake now, or . . ."

Kyle smiled, a little. Stan didn't understand the origin of the expression until a little bit later, when everything was laid clear on the table.

"He was actually awake for a little while before we got him here," He said. His smile was growing, but Stan could sense something behind his eyes. Something like false, blind, sorrowful hope. Something that made his stomach flurry with butterflies of anxiety. "His parents were taking us to the hospital, and we were in the back of their van with him. Don't you remember?"

Stan searched his mind briefly. And no, he did not remember. The last thing he remembered before waking up here, clammy and drenched with sweat from a nightmare-ridden, broken sleep, was after the attack. When he'd been watching Butters while Kyle went to fetch his parents, choking with coughs and barely able to breathe.

"Nah. I don't remember anything," He said vacantly, looking at Kyle's shoes. He wasn't sure about it, but there was a crusty dried something on his best friend's shoe that looked a lot like dried blood. It made his spine move in waves, and reminded him of last night's events with sickening clarity. The fact that the blood _had _to have come from Butters made matters worse.

"Nothing?" Kyle asked curiously, breaking the spell. "You don't remember teleporting into Butters' room, and seeing . . ."

"No, I remember all of _that. _The last thing I remember is you telling me to stay still, and watch Butters while you went to get his parents," He said. He paused, then, rolling through the events in his mind to make sure. He remembered a short, painful little battle that had seemed an hour and actually probably been less than a minute . . . And then darkness, until waking up _here, _with his father holding his hand and his mother wiping his forehead with a rough, damp cloth. They'd left about an hour after his awakening, saying they were going to 'the cafeteria for a quick bite to eat' . . . but that had been a while ago. At _least _an hour.

_Speaking of _my _parents . . . What about _Kyle's _parents? _He thought flittingly, moving on from the thought almost as fast as he came to it. _If I thought _mine _were bad, I'm surprised his mother didn't drag him home and ground him to his room for a month._

He tuned back into Kyle, a part of him wanting to ask him about this matter. He held it back, for now. There were much more important things to ask him about.

"Is Butters awake _now?" _He asked, hope inflating his words. However, something about the look in Kyle's eyes-- sorrow hiding behind an opaque window of hope-- made it feel hollow. He could only hope not. "Can you talk to him, and stuff?" Kyle darted his eyes to the side, and folded his hands behind his back as much as possible. The gesture looked much the way it did when the Infamous Phobia took control, but Stan had an idea that it wasn't about that, this time. It was simply about finding something to do with two swollen, pounding wrists.

"In the car, I did. He asked me what happened, but I couldn't really tell him around his parents, so I just told him I'd explain everything later. And then he asked if _you _were gonna be okay," That look escaped his eyes, for a moment, and was instead replaced by one of real, enormous fear. "You were pretty bad, by then. I think your throat might have been totally closed."

Stan nodded but, truth be told, he did not want to hear about it. Just the simple fact they'd nearly _died _together was scary enough. Discounting the asthma attack was, he felt, completely understandable. "Ooh. So he's not awake now? Like . . . I couldn't go see him?"

"I don't think they'd let you out of bed anyway, Stan, judging by the way they were talking this morning," Kyle replied. His slight smile returned, and Stan was pleased to feel himself giving an equal one. It was just something about _Kyle; _the same something that, probably, had drawn them together as friends.

"But, no, he's been asleep for a while," Kyle continued. "I was with him all morning, and they told his parents that they'd managed to get him in a stable condition. He'd lost a lot of blood, they said. Mostly from his leg. It's broken in five places, two of them compound fractures."

Stan had to search through the card-catalogue in his mind to come up with the meaning for this term. It still astounded him that, at the same age, his best friend could coin terms like these in everyday sentences. _That's just Kyle for you. Too smart for his own good. _In the end he gave up on calling up the meaning from his tired, oxygen-deprived brain, and artfully dodged it instead.

"That's . . . not so bad, then, huh?" He asked, perplexed. He collapsed back against the angled head of the bed, suddenly feeling the sleepiest he'd felt since awakening from his nap. He remembered someone way back in the track of his memory telling him that physical fatigue could be a result of tiredness of the mind, and if this wasn't proof, he didn't know what _was. _"I thought that guy had killed him, at first. I thought we were too late."

Kyle's well-won smile drooped. He had been looking at Stan, before, but his gaze now dropped helplessly to the floor. Just looking into his eyes seemed to reflect that horrific scene back into the open; the scene of Butters, sprawled bleeding on the bed, his force field sputtering around him like a light bulb near to burning out.

"So did I, dude." he said, somewhat quietly. He sounded the way Stan had expected him to sound all night long; grave, and deadly serious.

There was a short pause. It wasn't uncomfortable or awkward, the way many silences of the type could come to be. Instead, it seemed entirely right. It was the type of silence shared between many people in times of death or hardship; that calculating, considering silence that makes one wonder how life could have changed if outcomes were only different. If a wife lost her husband, she'd use this sort of silence to worry about how she would feed her children and make ends meet. If a man was in a wreck and ended up with a broken spine and paralyzed limbs, he'd use this silence to wonder if one inch to the left would have killed him instead.

It was Kyle who broke it. He jumped onto the bed next to Stan, having to throw himself in a half-way body slam position in order to avoid using his wrists. From the way it looked, Stan couldn't help bursting out in a snort of laughter. He looked like a penguin missing a flipper.

"Nice one, dude," He remarked, pulling him up by the upper arm. "You _do _know I could have done that for you, right?"

"Sure you could," Kyle panted, laughing a little himself. There was still a bit of concerned undertone waiting beyond his voice, but Stan could deal with that. That was just _Kyle. _"You _could, _but then I'd have to hurt you. Do you think I _want _to see you turn blue again? You scared the hell out of me!"

"That's why having powers is a wonderful thing. Telekinesis has its uses when asthma rules your life." _Except for the crazy bastards that crawl out of the woodwork every once in a while, that is._ Kyle said nothing to this; at least, not immediately. He used Stan's arm to pull himself against the tail-end bedrail, still wincing a bit at the use of his hand. By the way he acted, his wrists had to be hurting _pretty badly_. Kyle Broflovski had been through so many agonizing, compromising, and even _deadly _situations that most moderate, day-to-day pain was nothing but a walk through Central Park.

"_Telekinesis _might have its uses, dude," He said, quietly, folding his injured wrists in his lap. He looked down at them, a slight frown furrowing his brows. "But I don't know about explosion." Stan's short soar of cheery good feeling crashed to an immediate stop. It didn't disappear; at least, not completely. It was still there, close enough to reach when he needed it but far enough to make him sense part of the truth behind Kyle's tone.

He had to have known this was coming. After all, it was just _yesterday afternoon _that Kyle had been filled in that the pact had been broken. But, hell, what were they supposed to do? Turn the other cheek to the lunatics that were planning on killing Butters? If there was even a _chance _that Kenny's premonition had been wrong, informing Kyle would have been a last resort. But, considering the fact that the premonitions had proved nothing but flawless thus far, _not _telling him would have been stupid. Though the Infamous Phobia had taken him over, Kyle's powers-- _both _of them-- were completely indispensable.

_But was it really worth it? _Stan thought, studying the tortured gaze of his best friend. It wasn't common, to someone as high-spirited and stubborn as Kyle. And it only showed up when the Infamous Phobia had taken its hold. _Was it really worth it to ask for his help, when it makes him feel like _this? Aw well. Past was past. Butters was hurt. _Now. _Kyle was afraid. _Now._

_And I'm guilty as hell. NOW._

"What are you talking about, dude? You were great last night," Stan said, trying his best to break thick ice. Knowing Kyle as well as he did, he knew this probably wouldn't do much good. When talking the problems out of others, his best friend was divine; but when going through a problem himself, he was more the 'suffer in silence' type. The times he could be helped easily were rare, and only when Stan himself took the reins. "That guy was going to kill me, and you hit him dead center! You _saved my life!"_

Kyle nodded once at this. One corner of his mouth twitched, and Stan almost expected the smile to come blooming back . . . But it was nothing but a ghost, for now. _All _of Kyle's cheerfulness seemed nothing but a ghost. So much for wishful thinking.

"Yeah. I guess I did," Kyle affirmed, still looking down at his lap. He had the bulky wrist braces crossed carefully over one another, appearing to study the blurred signatures on the tops of them. The larger, neater signature read: _Get well soon, Bubie. Love, Mom. _The smaller one, in some form of childish chicken-scrawl, read simply: _Love, Dad. _The particular handwriting on this last one seemed a little jerky. Anger, perhaps?

"Being afraid of your ability is natural, Kyle. I mean, there's no way I could say _I _wouldn't be intimidated," said Stan, settling back against his pillow. For the first time since waking up, he actually felt stable enough to lay still for a while. Was it distraction? He thought so. While his best friend needed his emotional help, feeling guilty was a bleak pebble on the horizon.

"I think you cut yourself a little hard, though. I mean, sure. You can't control your power. None of us can, completely. And you're not the only one with the potential to hurt."

He thought of Cartman after their last encounter, with bones sticking from his arm like glistening, bloody teeth. The term 'compound fracture' floated back to the surface, and he instantly felt stupid for not realizing it before. He supposed he could count it as confusion due to trauma; but there _was _beginning to be a problem, here. Broken bones were becoming a pattern.

As if to confirm this, Kyle gave a shallow nod. From the place where his shoe rested on the bed, Stan could see the speck of dried copper-something on the top and got a sudden urge to wretch.

"I don't know, dude. I guess you're right," Kyle admitted, finally catching Stan's gaze again. His hazel eyes, while not really _tortured _as Stan had originally thought them, were vastly uneasy. His face appeared a bit paler than normal. "Sometimes it feels like I'm being selfish, but I'm just not sure what to do anymore. It's like I have no control."

"I think you have more control than you give yourself credit for. I mean, you've gotta have _some. _I think you exploded that guy's head dead center!"

Kyle's face broke into a thin smile. "I don't think he had an inch of scalp left."

"Yeah! And you weren't even _trying! _Imagine what you could do if you put your mind to it!"

Kyle's smile grew, and his pale face brightened up a little. This could have been a flush of embarrassment, but Stan doubted it. Of all the things Kyle was passionate about, his unpredictable power was not one of them. He probably didn't give two shits and a banjo whether someone thought he did it well or not.

Kyle stretched his legs out before him, letting out a heavy yawn. For the first time that night, Stan noticed how _tired _he appeared. Perhaps he hadn't obtained the chance to sleep off last night? As eventful as it had been for all of them, he was surprised they weren't dozing it off in a coma.

"I don't know, dude. Until I'm positively sure I won't vaporize one of my friend's heads again, I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with it," He said, settling against the white plastic bedrail. A few lines of red crayon slashed the portion behind him, a child's representation of a swatch of gore. "It doesn't matter that I didn't hit you. It was hasty, stupid and completely without thought. Completely _irresponsible."_

"Okay. I'll give you that," said Stan, suddenly feeling fierce-going-on-angry. The whole subject of Kyle being afraid of something that had saved his very life seemed ludicrous, no matter what the dangers. Also, knowing that a lot of Kyle's problems with the power stemmed on his very fear made it hard _not _to be frustrated. Sometimes it was easy to admit that simply _slapping sense _into Kyle would be a lot easier than the traditional best-friend-support-talk, if that were even a conceivable option. Maybe for Cartman, but he was dead meat after last night.

"I'll give you that, but did you ever think that maybe that's the key, here? That it _was _completely hasty?"

Kyle said nothing. Only looked at Stan, his eyes watery with post-yawn tears. _Good, _Stan thought, feeling unpleasantly victorious. _He's too tired to argue with me._

"Did you ever think that maybe it's your _thoughts _that get in the way of your control? Like, maybe, if you didn't give yourself time to think about what you _might _do . . . You just focused on what you _wanted _to do?"

Kyle sucked in a breath and opened his mouth to rebut this. Stan's mind began to grow hectic, thinking he might actually have to have a full-blown _argument _with his best friend . . .but thankfully, before Kyle could reply, there was a knock on the doorframe.

"Come in!" He called, without bothering to look.

There was the hurried sound of footsteps rushing across the linoleum. Before he could manage to turn his head, his visitor had made her way from the doorway to his bedside. There was the swish of dark hair, the flash of a pink beret.

_Wendy, _He thought, the words _oh shit _just falling short from his lips. By then she had jumped on the bed beside him and taken his hands.

"Stan!" She cried happily, her face shiny with something he hoped wasn't tears. A crying girl was something he didn't feel like he could deal with right now, unless his mood took a sharp 180. _Highly _unlikely. "Stan, thank God!"

Before he could say a word to her, she dived beneath his vision and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. It was something so startling_, _so _unexpected, _that it was all he could to do stay upright and keep his mouth from falling agape. He looked at his best friend from across the crevasse of long hospital bed and relieved girlfriend, and saw that he was smiling. Smiling in a small but very happy way that showed a hint of amusement at his situation.

_So maybe he's not going to be so down, _Stan thought, giving a little return smile himself. It was hard not to. _That's good. Maybe we can put this behind us a little easier than we did last time._

He would have spared some breath to tell Kyle to take a nap-- he looked positively _winded--_but was interrupted by another short squeeze of Wendy's arms. After this she pulled back away from him, officially blocking his view of Kyle.

"I heard the news after school today. When I saw you weren't there, I _knew _something must have gone wrong . . . And then your mom called me," Wendy said, still holding onto his hands. Stan smiled at her, meekly, but deep down inside his emotions were a roiling battlefield. Just seeing her face was enough to make it happen-- a battle of all of his prior fears, hang-ups and problems with letting her powers be revealed. How could he? How could he do that to this sweet, pretty girl he'd had a crush on his entire school life? It'd been a no-brainer all along. He _couldn't._

"She told me you had an asthma attack. How?" Wendy asked, wiping moisture from her eyes. Stan didn't know if it was from being upset or not, but he hoped it was allergies. _Really _hoped. "You were just sitting there when I left, sitting there with Kyle and Cartman . . ."

A slow dawning reached her eyes. Her face was struck momentarily as if a gong had gone off inside her head, and her cheeks drained of color. Her eyes, such a deep and pleasant brown, became wide and glassy.

"Oh . . ." She said quietly, still clutching his hands. He thought that, were she to lift her fingers, he'd see little red prints where they had pressed his blood vessels into pancakes. "Oh my gosh . . ."

He felt his pulse thundering in his neck. His heart hammered in his chest, vibrating his ribcage uncomfortably against his sides. That look in her eyes said everything. She'd figured it out, that they'd been attacked, and was about to spill every secret he'd stressed to keep under wraps. _In front of Kyle._

He said the first thing that came to mind. Surprisingly, it came out well.

"Uhh . . . Yeah. An asthma attack. Can you believe it?" He asked, hearing the peculiar tremble in his voice. Kyle could probably hear it, too, but would most likely equate it to simple nervousness. Bless him. "I'm all right, though. Nothing to be too worried about."

For one sick moment of fear that look remained in her eyes. Then, as suddenly as if a switch had been flipped, it dissolved into a smile. A genuine, warm, completely relieved smile. Seeing it there made Stan's stomach do circus leaps. Some of this was the relief of their secret not being told, but most at the knowing that it was _he _that had put that smile on her face. _He, _Stan Marsh, the guy who had been practically _in love _with her since the first time he saw her. It gave certain boosts to a guy's ego.

"It got a little scary, for a while, but I'm all right now. Just ask Kyle. He's been here since the beginning," He said, feeling gradually better. He gestured toward Kyle, having to point over Wendy's shoulder to do so. She turned and moved slightly backward, introducing him back into Stan's vision. "I don't know if I've ever _seen _him so tired. He was up all night."

Kyle smiled, and waved a hand dismissively. No matter _how _he tried to play it off, however, Stan could tell he was a hair's breadth from dozing off. And if he did, he certainly wouldn't wake him. In his honest opinion, there'd never been a person who deserved a couple hour's worth of sleep _more._

"Hey, Kyle," Said Wendy in the polite, nonchalant way she always did. This night, it seemed a bit more enthusiastic. Stan guessed it had to do with the fact Kyle had helped to save his life, but he couldn't be sure.

"Hey, Wendy," Kyle responded, lifting one of his clunky wrist braces in some semblance of a wave. Stan had to snort back a laugh. Even his _wave _looked tired.

"I heard about your wrists. And I heard about Butters. What happened? It's sort of a coincidence, isn't it, that all of this would occur in one night?" She turned her head to Stan, just a little, but to where only he could see. In her eyes was a heavy, sizzling weight, something that was halfway teasing and all the way suspicious. He didn't have to already feel guilty for the glance to hit home. He knew exactly what it meant, and exactly what it would _mean _when Kyle left the room.

_She knows, _He thought, feeling his eyes freeze on her. A part of his mind wondered what Kyle must be thinking, witnessing this, but then a stronger part didn't care. His heart leaped into his throat, worse than it had when that _thing _had him by the jaw and was ready to twist his head off like a bottle cap. _I should have saw it coming, but she _knows.

The moment should have dissolved when Wendy turned her gaze to Kyle, but it didn't for Stan. His blood still remained clotted in his veins, slathering his hair to his forehead with sweat, making him feel like he might have an asthma attack again.

From somewhere outside his mind, he heard Kyle's voice. Making up an excuse of an answer for Wendy's question, bless him, even though such a thing was invariably unneeded. He was just glad he'd contributed to diverting Wendy's attention. Stan made an inward promise to buy him a Coke, for that.

"Yeah. We all had pretty bad luck. But we're getting through it, I guess," Kyle said, finishing up his legendary excuse. He was now cradling his wrists in his lap again, crossing the signature of dear old daddy over that of beloved mom. His fingers, sticking like ten miniature sausages from the ends of the wrist braces, appeared discolored and drained of blood.

"Ooh," Said Wendy, in a tone that cramped Stan's stomach. "Mrs. Marsh said Butters is in pretty bad condition. He's doing better now, I take it?" "Yeah. I was with him all day, and most of last night. He was pretty bad when they brought him in, but now he seems to be doing better."

"Oh. Good news."

Wendy turned back to Stan. For a moment, that teasing-and-suspicious look remained in her gaze, raising one of her eyebrows and making Stan feel like a poached animal on a stick. Then, it faded, and she was wearing that same old candy-sweet, loving grin-- the same one that formed the major foundation of Stan's crush on her.

"Are you feeling okay? Can I get you anything?" Stan managed to smile at her. It felt real, on some level, but mostly pathetic. How else should one feel, after dreading the wrath of a _girl? _After _fearing _the wrath of a girl?

"I'm okay," He muttered, his face feeling hot.

"All right. Then I'm just going to step out to the lady's room, a moment. I won't be long."

She jumped from the bed, giving Stan a little smile as she did it-- something that could have been strictly sweetness, but also, quite probably, another stab at suspicious teasing-- and entered the in-room bathroom. She closed the door behind her, still smiling as the heavy wood gapped in on her face, and then ended the gesture with the sound of tumblers grinding in the lock.

It was astounding how fast Kyle turned to Stan after that door was closed. He spoke in a hushed whisper, his hazel eyes bright with fear.

"Do you think she can hear us through that door?" He asked fiercely.

Stan looked over at it. He heard the surge of the faucet starting, the high beauty of his girlfriend humming behind the rush. Something told him this wasn't about using the restroom at all. Simply for giving two best friends much needed time to talk things out.

_Or, rather, giving a boyfriend time to admit everything before the bomb goes off, _he thought, biting his bottom lip.

"I don't think so, dude," He responded, still looking at that door and trying to see the Wendy behind it.

"Okay. Good," Said Kyle, scooting a little closer. He did this clumsily, due to his limits of mobility, but nimbler that Stan would have originally expected of him. If anyone was resourceful enough to live around fractured wrists, Kyle was the guy. "Let's just cut to the chase. Is it possible that she has _any _idea what went on last night?"

Many things rushed into Stan's head at once. The perfect lie, for one thing; but also thoughts of how things might turn out if he decided to tell Kyle the _truth, _right now. _Certainly _better than they would if he let Wendy tell him. And _certainly _better than they would if he chose to tell Kyle even a _week _later, as Butters still lay on the painful road to recovery, most likely screaming through his nights. Kyle would not see the 'protecting Wendy' part of everything, because Kyle knew no more about caring for girls than he did about controlling his powers. He would see only the selfish part of it. The part that let Butters lay screaming in that bed, night after night, without the all-too-available relief.

_But maybe that's because Kyle would see the _right _side, _He thought, still looking at the bathroom door. Listening to Wendy hum behind the surge of the faucet, to a tune that mimicked 'This Little Light of Mine' but sounded enchantingly beautiful. _Kyle would see the side that I _should _be seeing. That _Wendy _is seeing._

"Hey. Hello. Earth to Stan," Kyle said, waving his swollen sausage hand in Stan's face. When Stan looked away from the door, distracted but aware, he smiled at him. "Jesus. I knew you had it bad for Wendy, but I had no idea it was like _this." _"I'm sorry, dude. What did you ask before? I didn't hear you." "I said, do you think Wendy has _any _idea what happened last night? You know, about what _really _happened to us all?" He paused a moment, then said, "Those guys that attacked us?"

Stan wanted to answer Kyle automatically. Wanted to say _yes, she knows. _Has_ known almost since the very beginning, ever since the day I sat in her bedroom and spewed every secret you've struggled so hard to keep. Some best friend I am, huh? I don't blame you if you kill me. _But he _couldn't _say that. And he didn't know _why, _other than he was afraid of the way Kyle would react to it. Protecting Wendy had a large part, too, but maybe not so much. Because she obviously didn't _want _his protection. Maybe she didn't even _need _it.

_Maybe those guys were the last of them. Maybe we're free now._

A part of him wanted to believe this, but a larger part doubted it.

"I . . . I don't know, dude," Said Stan, jutting his hands into his pockets. This would have worked out well, had his gown had them. They didn't, and his hands slid stupidly into his lap. That was okay. He began knocking his fists. "I just . . ."

Kyle leaned slightly forward. The air Stan felt around him-- that air of _I'm your best friend, you can tell me anything-- _made him feel like crying.

"Stan?" He asked seriously. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

_Yes, Kyle. Yes. There is something I need to tell you. It's killing me, and I _have _to._

Stan opened his mouth to say this. He moved a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed the hot skin there, feeling little strands of his hair tangle and pull beneath the hospital bracelets. It was now, or never. Now, to tell Kyle, protect their friendship and save Butters before he could know the true meaning of pain. Never, to turn him down, and almost certainly lose him as a friend some time soon along the road.

_Now's the right time, _He thought, seeing Kenny in his head. And of course it would be Kenny telling him this; who else would know when that pivotal time was between understanding and _mis_understanding? Only the guy that could tell you what side the coin would land on, no matter how high you flipped it. _Now's the right time. Now. Or Never._

He cleared his throat. Somewhere deep in the caverns of his lungs, he felt pain, but it was numb to the mental tangles. Numb to Kyle's face before him, his hazel eyes so bright with the desire for knowledge that they almost cast a glow.

"Yes," He said quietly, still in a whisper. "Yes, Kyle. There's something I have to tell you."

Kyle bent just a little closer. The rush of the faucet behind the bathroom door stopped, but Wendy's beautiful humming continued like a soundtrack to his confession. Maybe she'd meant it that way all along? It made him feel like laughing.

"Okay," Kyle said, sounding somewhat confused. He scooted a bit closer, presumably to make his whispers better heard. "What is it?"

Stan sucked in a breath. He knew it would take many more of them, but with one was the best way to start. Especially for an asthmatic.

"All right," He said quietly, trying to keep his voice from quivering. It didn't, and that somewhat surprised him-- he was closer to tears than he had been last night, when his shoulder blades had felt like they were on fire. "All right, I've been dying to tell you this for a while, but I just never really---"

_Got around to it, _He started to say. But, before he could, he heard the voice of his father closing in from the hallway.

_Oh no,_ He thought, feeling the first of the real tears make their way to his eyes. _No, please. No, I just got the courage, please don't--_

"Hey, Stanley!" Bellowed the good-natured, slightly idiotic voice of Randy Marsh. He came up behind Stan and clapped him on the back, almost knocking him forward with the force of the slap. It wasn't like he couldn't handle it. It was just that disappointment had sucked out all his strength. "Hey, you're sitting up! And you're still awake! I thought you would've conked out again by now."

Stan didn't answer him. His eyes, which had been practically _burning _on Kyle's like lasers, sank to the ruffled blankets of his bed. He could sense Kyle's holding his own for just a little while longer, patient, trying to get through to Stan even though it was mostly impossible. But he just couldn't respond to them; not while his heart was puddling in the bottom of his stomach.

_Damn you, Dad, _He thought, feeling a subtle anger add on to the disappointment and hopelessness. _My only chance, and wasted by you. My only chance, and you--_

"Stan? Is something the matter?" Randy asked again behind him. When Stan still didn't answer, he poked him several times in the ribs and said, "Are you not going to talk, now? Grouchy, or something?"

Stan didn't want to respond to his father at all, but couldn't help letting out a few choked giggles and struggling away from the assault. He ended up on his back, quite a bit away from his father but also, unfortunately, away from Kyle. Aw, well. Not like it mattered anymore. He couldn't tell his secret while his parents were in here, and this could have been the perfect chance down the drain. _Well done, Dad. _He thought, his cheeks heating with rage. _This one takes the cake._

"I'm sorry it took so long, sweetie. We ran into the Broflovskis while we were eating dinner," His mother said, walking in behind his dad. She stepped to his bedside and gave a smile to both him and Kyle, obviously not hearing Wendy from behind the bathroom door. Stan had an idea she'd come out, soon; after all, he and Kyle obviously couldn't talk with his parents in.

"Did they bring you dinner?" His mother asked. "They said they would."

"Yeah. It was okay, I guess." Stan replied flatly.

"Well, they said you can come home tomorrow morning! Isn't that exciting?"

Stan turned his face away from both of his parents. Instead he focused on the puke-green color of the far wall, decorated with buttons and complicated machinery.

"Yeah," He said again, just as flatly. "Exciting." His father came after him again with his terrible rib-pokes, but luckily his mother was sensitive enough to his feelings to call him off. And that was just as well, for Stan; maybe at a different time he'd feel more like laughing, but for now he just felt _blah. _Mostly toward his father, whom he counted as the author of this misery; but that too would pass. His guilt, however, would not.

A while later, after Kyle had left (after being _forced _out by his parents, of course, and most likely sent to bed) and Wendy remained, Stan thought of telling her what he'd tried to do. But, in the end, that was something he _couldn't _do, either; no matter how happy it would probably make her.

_Because it'll make her too bold. Too _unafraid. _And then, when she's least expecting it . . . Just like Butters, she'll get a visitor in the night._

Except Wendy . . .

She didn't have a force field, now did she? He finished up his last night in the hospital with a restless, tossing sleep. His mother stayed up there with him, lying on the uncomfortable, torturing apparatus they called a 'cot' in hospitals like these, but even _she _caught more sleep than he did. He thought of waking her several times, but decided to reserve this silence for himself. To think things over, and decide what had to be done now that his plans had been thrown out of whack.

And what needed to be done?

Well, they definitely needed to start staying together. As much as possible.

_And I, _He thought, starting bitterly at the ceiling, _I need to grow some balls. Before it's too late, and we all _lose _ours._

He wasn't sure how late it was, but he eventually fell asleep. All he knew was, that when he woke up in the morning, it was to his mother telling him to get his shoes on, it was time to go home.

__________________________________________________________________________

Hey, ya'll! Sorry for the length between updates! I erased this entire chapter like, _five _times before finally coming up with the one I now present to you . . . I found it so hard to write! The ones that revolve around _inner _conflicts always will be that way, I guess, but damn! I feel like I deserve a global achievement for even getting it out to you _this _fast! (ha ha, joking).

Okay, so, like I said, this was the big 'guilt' chapter for Stan. And it'll be the only one, I promise. After all the grief I had writing it, _and _because of the way the story will soon turn (hee hee, spoiler!) there's no need for more, and _some _of you (maybe _most _of you, including me) will be very happy. Hooray.

Okay, so, next? Kyle's POV, of course, like the norm. He's got some business to attend to with Cartman, _and _Kenny, and . . . Will he find out about Wendy's secret? Gee . . . I don't know. I guess you'd better stick around to find out!

Okay, see you next time! Hopefully, in less than a week-and-a-half!

-Aub


	6. Reformation

Hey, guys! So here we are again, tuning in for the next chapter! Boy, I'm so excited! Aren't you? J I didn't have a lot of confidence in the last chapter, so I was quite surprised at the praise I received for it, but thanks a bunch! You guys really boosted my confidence, and I'll try really hard to never let it fall again!

Hhm. Okay. This week has been really emotional for me (for reasons I would not admit, so as not to disgust my male readers), and I think it's really helped with forming this chapter. I don't know why, but for some reason, I feel like it's turned out very good! But, man . . . Is it a LONG one! That oughta make a bunch of you happy!

It's all about the boys, and what they do to pull back together after so startling an attack. I can't say if Kenny will show up or not, because not even _I _know where he is right now, but if he does, that will be grand. This will be the first chapter that we see Kyle really _accept _the way things have turned out for him. We all know the way he feels about his powers, his _fear _of them, and this chapter we get to see him try and control that fear for the first time. We also get to see Stan use his astral projection for the first time . . . And, best of all, more of that good old-fashioned Kyle and Cartman friendhateship!

Once again, thanks to all my reviewers, favoriters, story-alerters, and P. that may be. I couldn't do this without you!

And so, without any further ado, I introduce you to Chapter 6 . . . Reformation!

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Chapter 6: Reformation

Kyle stared intently at the afternoon sky before him, bouncing a rock tediously from hand to hand. It was three hours past noon on a Sunday, a perfect day to be catching some last-minute playtime with his friends, but he was stuck here on his back porch. Here, bouncing a rock between his hands, watching a perfect blue sky while the cold concrete froze his rear-end and the wind carried to his ears the sound of children's play from beyond the fence. The play of _other _children. He? He was as trapped as a dog on a chain.

_Grounded, _He thought bitterly. Grounded over events that had occurred on Friday night; the very same night he'd snuck out, fractured his wrists _and _helped in destroying Butters' room all within the same hour. His parents were a bit mad about that, understandably . . . But Kyle? He thought he deserved afreaking _medal. _'The most your kid can do in an hour'. It had a nice ring to it, he thought.

He looked beside him. There, sitting next to him, was a pile of various pieces of junk . . . Mostly rocks and dented cans, but there were a few other things, as well. A GI Joe doll with its head pulled off, courtesy of Ike. A Barbie head that he'd found randomly in his backyard. A stick, a worn out old shoe, and something that resembled a glove with only one finger. He wasn't sure what this last thing was. Only that it suffice just as well as the others.

_So I'm grounded. And it sucks,_ He thought, picking up GI Joe. The plastic was rough and chewed up in some places, prickling the pads of his fingers. _But that doesn't mean I can't make the most of it._

_Time for some target practice._

Every instinct in his body cried out against it, but Kyle was tired of listening to that part of himself. He'd tried and tried to deny that anything serious was happening to he and his friends, but no matter how hard he tried to argue his point, in the end it seemed he'd stuck his foot in his mouth. They were in _trouble. _The events of Friday night proved that. And, much as Kyle hated it, and as much as he felt like what he was doing was _wrong, _denying it any longer would mean compromising the lives of his friends.

The fear-- or the Infamous Phobia, as it had been affectionately named in his mind-- was pleasantly pushed to the back burner. It wouldn't stay there for long. There was only so much time left in his rational body to do this, and it couldn't be wasted.

"Okay. Here goes nothing," He said out loud, letting the sound of his own voice comfort him. It bounced off the trees and came back to his ears, sounding loud and scared. A part of him way down deep hoped this would make him come to his senses, but that part was just as buried as the phobia was. Just as _numb. _

"Let's just try to watch mom's garden. Stan's going to _kill _me if I get grounded another week." He tossed GI Joe from one hand to the other, just as he had the rock, getting a feel for the chewed-up, ravaged plastic. Then he threw him lightly into the air before him in a shallow, underhanded arc.

He raised his hands to his chest. As the toy began its descent to the ground, he gave himself time for one solitary thought.

_Freeze, _He thought, feeling cold sweat of concentration dampen his forehead. _Freeze, damn you. No parlor tricks._

He spread his palms apart. There was brief hesitation, though he believed this might have existed only in his mind-- and then GI Joe, as if being held on an invisible pedestal, stopped in midair with his distorted legs pin-wheeled above his head and his arms in a sprinter's pump. He did not sway in the wind, nor respond to the nature around him in any way. He simply _froze. _Like a magazine cut-out glued to a moving back drop.

Kyle felt his muscles shaking giddily, the way they often did on Christmas morning. He bunched his fists up on his knees, ignoring the dull pain swelling in his wrists and trying to concentrate on GI Joe, instead. No matter how tightly he managed to restrain the delight, he couldn't help letting out a loud, happy laugh-- the sort of laugh the children from beyond the fence were laughing. A laugh of true happiness.

_That's it, _He thought, putting a hand over his mouth to restrain the mad chuckles oozing from his body. If his mother heard them, she was liable to barrel out the back door thinking he'd gone crazy. _That's it. All it takes. Piece of cake. _

However, no matter how easy it seemed, no matter how much of a _piece of cake, _Kyle didn't dare let his eyes stray from the motionless, headless GI Joe. The progress he'd had thus far seemed like good luck. To tempt it seemed taboo.

_Okay. Now just a little bit farther, _He thought, drawing his hands back to his chest again. He could hear his heart thumping in his head, bonking in his ears with a steady _bump, bump, bump. _His bottom lip had crept into his mouth, unwarranted, and he now chewed it to a point of near rawness. Blood would soon follow. _No reason for mistakes. No reason to be nervous._

_No reason to do anything but play it cool, while I blow this hunk of plastic to smithereens._

He held his hands at his chest, aware that they were shaking. The wind cooled the sweat on his brow, acquainting him with the slightest shiver. After a point of about a minute, when his whole body was shaking and there was a tight feeling at the bottom of his throat like he just might let go of his lunch, he spread his palms apart and hoped.

_GI Joe, _He thought, wincing to the side. _Trying _to concentrate, but concentrating more on how fast his heart was beating. _GI Joe. Hit GI Joe. Turn him into pencil shavings. _

There was that sound, again. That sound of an exploding firecracker, the one that made him jump every time he heard it. This time was no exception. It startled him so badly that he not only gasped, but also fell backwards on the pavement, landing square on the base of his spine and stupidly biting his tongue. The sun beat red blankets against his closed eyelids as he felt the debris of _something _showering his legs . . . _something _that he really doubted went by the name of GI Joe, judging by the size and amount.

_Damn it, _He thought, waiting through the end results of the explosion. _Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!_

Anger quivered inside of him, replacing that Christmas-morning type cheer he'd been experiencing earlier. He laid back on his smarting spine, feeling the last of the debris scattering around his ankles, letting the sharpness of the sun bring slight tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. It seemed somewhat appropriate, after this. After . . .

_Failing._

He bunched his hands up into fists, feeling the familiar dull pain in his wrists. The gesture was meant to calm him down, and it did just that; but made him feel the throbbing in his tongue all the harder. He thought he might have bit a chunk out of it.

_Doesn't matter now. I didn't hit Joe, so I have to see what I _did _hit, else I--_

"Ky-ul?"

Kyle's eyes flew open. There, looking down at him with a popsicle threatening to melt onto his very nose, was Ike. He was bent over his face and staring straight into his eyes, his head cocked slightly in a curious manner. His features were magnified to Kyle's vision like some kind of caricature.

At his big brother's shocked, wide eyes, he cocked his head even further. The popsicle dripped a mere centimeter away from Kyle's left temple.

"Ky-ul?" He asked, blinking his large, black eyes. "Ess-plode?"

Without another spare thought, Kyle shot himself up from the pavement. A brief flicker of something unpleasant passed through his head-- _Oh my God, Ike was standing here the entire time, I could have hit him, I could have _killed _him-- _but it was pushed to the back burner, for now. He could worry about it later, when he was stuck in his room at five P.M. with absolutely _nothing _to do. For now, he had to play the protective big brother.

"Ike! What are you doing out here?" He demanded, standing in front of him to block his view of whatever had exploded and the frozen, mid-pirouette GI Joe. The chances of Ike not having seen the blast were slim, but he could still pretend, couldn't he? Just like he could pretend that life would soon revert back to normal? _Pretending is the simplest way of fooling yourself, _he'd heard someone say along the road. Boy, was that true.

"Aren't you supposed to be taking a nap?"

Ike took a lick of his popsicle, and pointed behind Kyle. _Oh, damn, _He thought, sighing with defeat. _How much of this is it going to take until I remember that my little brother is a genius?_

"Ka-boom!" Ike imitated, throwing his hands into the air. The melting popsicle took the momentum and went sliding off the stick, forming a purple puddle on the porch. Ike paid it no attention. "Ka-boom! In the twee!"

_Kaboom in the twee, huh? _Kyle thought, turning around. Knowing _exactly _what he would see. And he was right; because when he turned around, he _definitely _saw a tree . . . but where before it had been healthy and flawless, there was now a huge, smoking hole in the center of the bark. It wasn't a very big tree, thank God, and it hadn't been enough to _timber _the thing . . . But it was close enough. _Surely _close enough.

And GI Joe still dangled in the air before it, a sight that struck Kyle as slightly hilarious. The way his legs and arms were posed made it look like he was beating a hasty retreat from the explosion site, but he certainly wasn't getting far.

_Aw, wow. _That's _something to explain. _

Before he could bother, Ike pranced past him over to the half-chewed thing that once passed for his GI Joe toy. Without even giving its position a second glance, he wrapped his little fist around it and plucked it plainly from the sky.

"Fwy!" He exclaimed, waving the toy in front of his face in a sad imitation of Kyle's freeze. "Fwy! Joe Fwy!" Kyle couldn't help the warm smile that crossed his face. Bless the innocence of toddlers. Of _course _he wouldn't put two and two together. It was ridiculous to think so in the first place. Genius or not, the kid was only _two._

"Fly," Kyle agreed, through yet another sigh of relief. "GI Joe can fly."

He was thinking about what types of excuses he could say to explain the hole in the tree when he heard his mother calling him. Her voice sounded muffled behind the sliding glass door, but unmistakable nonetheless.

"Kyle!" She shouted, her voice coming ever closer to the back door. "Kyle, telephone!"

"Oh, shit!" Kyle snapped one last glance at the smoking tree, and then grabbed Ike's sticky fist. He began rushing toward the back door to meet his mother, fearful of how she'd react to the fresh smidgen of destruction. "Why couldn't you have told me she was looking for me? Some spy you are!"

"Fwy! GI Joe can fwy!" Kyle had just managed to get inside the door and slide it closed before his mother got to him. She was holding the phone out to him impatiently, her face twisted in an unpleasant expression of motherly firmness.

"Five minutes," She said tersely, "And no more." "Ka-boom!" Ike crowed to her. "Ka-boom in the twee!" "Hush, Ike. Your brother's on the phone." Kyle took the phone from his mother and stuck it to his ear. "Thanks, mom." He was hoping she'd go away when he said this, and she did . . . And, thankfully, _away _from the back door. Let her be ignorant for at _least _an hour. Maybe then she wouldn't equate the destruction with him.

He gave a heavy, gusty sigh. "Hello?" There was a pause on the other end of the phone, then an audible _click_. Someone moving around a lot, no doubt. He became slightly impatient, and readied himself to shout something sharp into the phone, when Stan's voice finally spoke up on the other end.

"Hey, dude. Are you somewhere alone?" He asked hurriedly, as if in a rush. Kyle couldn't help but notice the certain quietness of his voice, as if worried someone might hear. _Parents, _perhaps? "There's something we need to discuss. As soon as possible." Kyle felt his mood, his entire _body, _brighten. Judging by Ike, who stepped back just a little, the brightening was outwardly visible. _And _a little scary.

"Stan?" He asked, excitedly. It was all he could do to control the volume of his voice. "You're home? They let you out of the hospital!?" Another pause, on Stan's end. From the kitchen, he heard his mom yell something in the neighborhood of 'Tell Stanley I'm glad he's feeling better', but the little casualties could wait for later. By Stan's tone of voice, _much _later. Through the thick layer of excitement Kyle felt a cool, frigid dread trying to work its way in.

"Yeah. They let me out this morning," Stan said, still so quiet that it was hard to hear him. Kyle had to place a finger over the hole in his opposite ear to even get a _start _at understanding. "Are you up in your room, yet?" "Oh . . . No. Hang on a sec." Kyle sped toward the stairs and began bounding up them, as fast as he could safely go without having to grab the handrail. Ike thumped up the stairs behind him, apparently hoping to follow Kyle into his room, as he normally would. But not today. Even if he wouldn't understand, the chances of him hearing something and repeating it absent-mindedly at the dinner table were high. No doubt GI Joe's sudden flying skills would make it there, as well.

"No, Ike. You can't come in!"

He made it to his room, grabbed the door knob. Ike made one last ditch effort to get inside, but Kyle shoved him gently out of the way and closed the door. Locking it wasn't necessary. The kid couldn't reach the door knob.

"Fwy!" Ike screamed through the door, angrily. "GI Joe FWY!"

Kyle flung himself onto his bed and kicked off his shoes, realizing for the first time how relieved he was to be back in his good old room. The surroundings held something soothing, after the stressful events of target practice. Something _warm. _Even with Ike standing outside the door, babbling his outrage, the gentle beating of the ceiling fan produced a rhythm he'd always found hypnotic.

"Okay, dude," He sighed, turning toward the window. "I'm alone." _Not sure if I'm ready to hear anymore bad news, but I'm alone. _

"All right. But you've gotta promise me you won't flip out when I tell you this. You were pretty angry before." Kyle paused. Angry? When the hell had he been angry? He blinked a couple of times, working this odd statement over and over again in his mind, but came up with nothing. Nothing since the attack, at least, and thus nothing worth _whispering _about. Unless Stan were just as grounded as he, minus the phone privileges. _That _had to suck two nuts and a penis.

_Well, wait. Saying I wasn't angry since the attack? _That's _a big lie, _He thought, remembering that first night in the hospital. He'd been sitting next to Butters, of course, holding his hand while his parents cried and the monitors beeped their steady sorrow. It had been within the first hour, when Butters' health was an open question on the air-- and whether he'd survive or not was a matter of hope and simple prayer.

Cartman had come to mind several times. Not in the light, adoring way the faces of his other friends often came to mind; but in a dark, awful way that made a red blanket of rage fall over his eyes. He remembered the way his fists had clenched, when Cartman's face had come to mind. When he thought about the moment he'd looked up from his place on the floor and saw that the fat bastard had left he, Stan, and Butters, condemning them to an all-too-possible death. He had four little crescent-shaped cuts, the shape of his fingernails, dicing the centers of his palms.

_That asshole, _He thought, suddenly feeling angry all over again. His face felt hot and sweaty, his breath huffing out warm like steam. He felt like hitting something. _Anything. _

_That asshole left us. Left us to die._

He debated on whether or not to state this out loud, to Stan. In the end, he chose not to, in the case that his unhealthy amount of hatred might become contagious . . . But in the end, he couldn't help letting a little of his rage slip. Just a _tad._

"Angry? About what was I angry?" He asked, trying to speak without clenching his teeth. His fingernails sank into those shallow cuts, no doubt opening the way for more blood. "I don't remember _anything, _unless of course you're talking about _Cartman, _and that . . ."

Stan was suspiciously quiet. It took a lot to analyze silences like these, but Kyle was no idiot and had known Stan _way _too long. While other silences like these could say you were wrong without calling you a dumbass, this one could seem the same and still be the exact opposite.

"Oh, God," said Kyle, his rage temporarily ditched for exasperated surprise. He clutched the bottom of the phone tightly in his hand, until he could hear the pained little creaks of the plastic resisting the pressure. "_Cartman? _What the hell did he do now?"

Stan was silent again, but this one only lasted a second. Kyle took a moment to reflect on how strange it was that his best friend's feelings could be perfectly evident whether he was over the phone or not. A talent, or a curse?

"Yeah, Cartman. But he didn't do anything. He's over here now, and he's--"

"Did you tell him what an asshole he is!?" Kyle shouted, unaware of how loud he had become in his rage. Were Ike still lurking at the door, he'd be picking up some rather colorful language, but the part of Kyle that cared or thought it mattered was long gone. The other part was out, now. That other part that could be called _temper. _"Or maybe you should break his leg in five places! Because then he'd know what it feels like to be Butters, lying in the hospital right now because of _him!"_

Stan let out a deep sigh, the kind he often did when Kyle and Cartman got into it in front of him. It was a sigh that said _oh hell, not again . . . _and, in his current mood, it actually struck Kyle as a little annoying. He had to bite back a scream. He wasn't sure if there would have been any words to it, but it was _definitely _a scream.

"Look, Kyle. You don't even know the half of it," said Stan, in his normal tone. That calm, patient, negotiator tone.

"Yes! Yes, Stan, I do know the half of it!" Kyle shouted, rolling over and propping himself on his elbow. His wrist smarted, but he didn't care; he needed to see the sky through the window. The calm, blue, soothing sky, with its gentle afternoon sun. It seemed to cradle his shot nerves. "I know that a _fat asshole _named Eric Cartman ditched us Friday night, and we all could have been killed as a result of it! I know that _you _had a severe asthma attack, I fractured both my wrists and Butters' leg looks like a roll of ground beef, all because of--" "He ditched us because he saw Kenny, Kyle," Stan said in a clear, final voice. It was an interruption that seemed like no interruption at all; his voice cut through Kyle's angry ramblings like a sharpened spade.

Every feeling in Kyle's body came to a sharp _halt. _He continued to stare out the window, watching the birds sail across the sky while he leaned on an elbow that sang with painful pressure. They hadn't really spoken of Kenny, since the hour of the accident. But, then, there hadn't been a reason to, had there? They'd all felt the same. Kenny had said he'd be there, watching Butters, and he hadn't been. He'd been nowhere in sight, which meant, most likely, one obvious thing.

"Kenny?" Kyle asked, all of the anger ditched and forgotten. He sat all the way up, feeling the heat of rage dissolve from his cheeks. Feeling something new arise just under his skin; something like hope with an ominous underbelly. "I thought . . . I thought he had died. Didn't he?"

_Died, _He wanted Stan to say. _Died, but he'll be back. In a week, maybe less, the way he always is. No reason to worry. _Buta feeling deep in Kyle's gut told him he wouldn't hear this out of Stan's mouth. Simply judging by his tone and his readiness to defend Cartman, he thought it'd be something much, _much _worse coming out of his best friend's mouth.

_Oh, no, _Kyle thought, gulping down a lump of dryness. _Oh, no. Please, no more. No more bad news. I've had enough._

"I think you'd better just come over here, dude," said Stan, still in that same tone. _Cheer up!_ Kyle felt like screaming. _Cheer up, damn you, before another potentially perfect day is ruined! _"I don't think this is the type of thing to say over the phone. I need you to be here."

_I need you to be here, _is what Kyle heard. But he knew that what Stan meant, what he _really _meant, was _I need you. You're my best friend, and I need _you_._

How could he refuse him? "I . . . I'm grounded, dude," Kyle said, propping his chin in his hand miserably. It drug his eye down at the corner, making him resemble somebody suffering a disfiguring scar. "I can't leave the house. Mom told me I only have five minutes on the phone with you, and you can bet when they're up she'll come in here and--"

"Don't worry about that dude. Cartman's sitting right here," Stan said, again mastering the art of swift, necessary interruption. "He'll come and get you. He already told me he would."

_But what he didn't tell you was that he'll ask for something later in return, _a part of Kyle thought, but he ignored it. That was the _angry _Kyle. The Kyle of about thirty seconds before, when the name Kenny hadn't even been mentioned between them. Now he was prepared to be a bit more tolerant; at least until he heard what wild, hair-brained excuse Cartman had used to trick Stan. After that, tolerance was out the door.

"Okay," said Kyle, putting his shoes back on. As fast as he did this, he thought he might have put them on backward; but who cared, anyway? Who cared, in the face of something this important? "Okay, I'll come. Just let me go hang the phone up. Send Cartman, and I'll be right there." "All right. Thanks."

"Don't mention it, dude."

He rushed out the door, phone in hand, ready to throw it on the cradle and tell his mother he was 'taking a nap'. He told her this, and she told him to go ahead, rest up, he'd had a hard last couple of days. Bless concerned, over-protective mothers. They could be the pits and the shits, but also, in certain situations, the easiest to fool.

He passed Ike's nursery on the way back to his room. He didn't stop, but slowed considerably, feeling a little bad for his earlier treatment of him. It wasn't something Ike was _used _to. Usually, he could do no wrong.

"Ess-plode," Ike repeated when he looked up from his blocks and saw him. He picked up GI Joe and waved him in the air, again imitating flight. "Ess-plode! Fwy! GI Joe fwy!"

Kyle smiled. "Yeah. GI Joe flies." He continued onto his room, running the rest of the way. It was a funny feeling to have, but he wasn't sure whether to be scared, relieved, or both.

*************************************************************

By the time he appeared in Stan's room, arm resting lightly on Cartman's shoulder, the need to punch him had grown into an itch. A deep, intense, maddening itch, the type that would drive a person into scratching their skin raw in order to abate it. Not because he'd _done _anything, per say; but because he _hadn't. _Because he'd built Kyle's expectations up, built them up and up and up, and then let them plummet to the ground like a bird with broken wings. It wasn't easy letting go of that much rage, just on a whim. What made it harder was the fact that it was _Cartman, _someone he was used to hating 99 percent of the time.

_Ugh. _Touching _him is hard enough, _He thought, as the blackness faded and Stan's bedroom came into focus. It seemed a little too bright in the afternoon light, a little too washed out. _I can only imagine what it's going to feel like _forgiving _him. Admitting that I was wrong, and taking what he says to heart. _

He took his hand down from Cartman's shoulder. It gave a nagging, aching protest-- something that was becoming increasingly familiar.

_But no matter how hard it's going to be, I have to do it. Because I was wrong, and I admit it._

He paused, a moment. The next thought brought a smile to his face.

_But I don't have to do _anything _until I hear his excuse._

And hear it he soon would. But not until he'd listened to Stan's side of the story, and decided whether or not it was actually believable.

"Hey, dude," He said, stepping away from Cartman as soon as possible. Stan was lying sprawled out on his bed with an arm thrown lazily over his chest, one leg steepled and one leg stretched. It was a piece of body language that seemed to say 'screw all this supernatural shit, can't a guy catch some rest?' It seemed something more likely of _Cartman _than Stan_, _but it didn't take Kyle long to remember Stan's mood of yesterday and equate it to that. He'd had something to tell him, hadn't he? Something that he'd been 'dying to tell him'?

If Stan had any indication of relaying this to him now, he didn't show it. He was probably waiting for a time when Cartman wasn't around, and that was just as good. Kyle had a feeling _this _little conversation would take up the entire night.

"Hey, dude. Sorry about this. I know you were probably resting after the weekend we've had so far, but I didn't think this could wait." Stan said, his voice as commanding as ever.

Kyle shot a sideways glance at Cartman, not able to help the tinge of maliciousness that coated his gaze. It felt a little petty, but, _hell, _wasn't he entitled to some of that? "It's okay, dude. I wasn't resting. I couldn't." "Couldn't? After Friday night?"

"No. After nearly getting _butchered _by some _monster _with sparkplugs for hands, it's a little hard to quiet the images that grow behind your eyelids," And about this, there was no lie. _No _exaggeration. How many times had he closed his eyes since Friday night and saw _blood? _How many times had he woken up thinking he smelled that _thing's_ putrid breath, or screamed his way out of a nightmare _sure _that a heavy hand was binding his wrists? He'd even found marks on them, once. When the delirium of night cleared, he was sure he'd caused these marks himself by squeezing just beneath the braces, but it still came down to the same thing, didn't it? He was ruined, for now. Scarred. _Broked, _as Ike might say.

There was a brief pause after his last sentence. Kyle couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Cartman look at the ground from the corner of his eye. Look at the ground, and shuffle a foot. It gave him satisfaction but also, surprisingly, a little stab of wretchedness.

Naturally, Stan broke the silence. His voice was a little shaky.

"Well . . . You're grounded, right? So what else could you do, besides stare at the wall and . . . play with Ike?"

"I had a little target practice," Kyle replied. He was a fairly surprised that admitting it came so easy. What might have been _harder _would have been saying that he accepted everything for the way it was, and knew he couldn't change it. Saying that he was officially a _part _of this.

_But isn't that what I _am _saying? Because both Cartman and Stan know that I would never use my powers unless I absolutely _had _to. _

He didn't say this, but knew they were all thinking it. This was pretty much affirmed, with Stan's next statement.

"Wow, dude!" He exclaimed, sitting up from that horribly lazy position. That I'm-here-but-I-don't-really-want-to-be expression left his face entirely, leaving it bright and curious. The _old _Stan, back for the count. "Target practice!? What did you practice _on? _Did you hit anything?"

Kyle smiled. He watched Cartman closely out of the corner of his eye, and saw that a sour look had replaced the uncharacteristic shameful one of before. But something was still there. Something mellow and concerned, hiding behind his eyes where it didn't belong. It was strange enough that he hadn't said something tacky yet.

"I hit a tree," Kyle answered. _Ess-plode, _Ike crowed pleasantly in the center of his head, _Ess-plode in the twee. _Stan's question didn't seem to matter at all when studying Cartman, who _looked _his old self on the outside but really _wasn't. _It would have been easy for someone who didn't know Cartman as well to think the change had begun when Kyle had been introduced into the conversation, but Kyle himself knew this was very wrong; because he'd been acting this way when he'd came to get him, hadn't he? He hadn't said a word; simply touched his arm and they were off like Greased Lightning.

_Okay, _He thought, suddenly sweating a bit. _Okay, this is bad._

"Where's Kenny?" He asked, looking strictly at Stan, _not _Cartman. Not thinking he _could _look at Cartman, if he kept studying the ground that way. "What's wrong? Why do you both look that way?"

_This is the first time I've ever wanted Eric Cartman to _be_ Eric Cartman_, he thought nervously, bunching his fists uncomfortably at his sides.

Stan acted a little fearful, as if talking on the matter would jinx Kenny's luck (as if it wasn't jinxed enough already) but he did not beat around the bush. This relieved Kyle. After the events of last night, bush-beating would lead him to expect an overly-eager Randy Marsh to burst suddenly in the room.

"Cartman?" Stan asked, in a voice that was almost bleak. His tone drew Kyle's eyes to the boy he'd been trying not to look at all this time, regardless of what he would have wanted or expected to happen. And . . . He looked _human. _Miserable, sad, tortured . . . _human. _The sight actually siphoned a small gasp from his lungs. "Don't you think you should tell him? You're the one who saw it happen." Cartman nodded, once. "Yeah. Right. Of course I'll tell him," A pause. "Though I doubt he'll believe me."

Kyle blinked. He looked back to Stan for a moment, _praying _for some sort of explanation, perhaps even a little something to break all this _tension _(as thick as pea soup, his mother might have said), but saw nothing in his best friend's eyes. He was staring fixedly at Cartman, entirely banking on everything he said, entirely convinced by whatever excuse he'd come up with. Kyle himself would not be so easily fooled. Cartman had said 'Though I doubt he'll believe me', and in saying that he was entirely right. Yet, he would still listen-- all for Kenny's sake.

"You doubt I'll believe _what?" _He asked, trying to keep his voice level and patient. _Peaceful. _All very hard, when dealing with Eric Cartman.

"That I saw Kenny," Cartman replied. His voice was somber and concerned, though raised with sharp edges; the kind that meant he would be willing to snap, if the occasion called for it. Of _course _his real self was in there, thinly buried beneath this sheet of concern and well-meaning. _Of course _it was. "As soon as we teleported into Butters' room. When that big guy--" "_When?" _Kyle asked. "I didn't see him anywhere! All I saw was--"

"If you'd let me finish, you'll find all that out when I _tell _you," Cartman snapped, his voice as unfriendly as always.

Kyle frowned, but stayed silent. Much as he would have liked to say something, now was not the time or place-- not when Kenny's safety was at stake. And not when Cartman was actually behaving like he had a heart. Rare, but not impossible.

At Kyle's silence, Cartman cleared his throat. It seemed a little satisfied . . . Or a little _worried._

"Okay. As I was saying, I saw it when that big guy came at you, Kyle. The one that was standing next to Butters' bed? Waiting to kill him, I believe," At Kyle's shallow nod, he returned one and continued. "Yes. So, Stan jumped in front of you. To protect you, I think . . . And that's when I saw it happen."

_Saw what!? _Kyle wanted to shout. _Saw _what _happen!? _But he kept his mouth sealed. The more he pressured Cartman to speak, the more he'd close off. It was just the way the fat asshole was wired. And, annoying as it was, it had to be dealt with.

"You guys obviously didn't see it, but there was someone else in the room with us. He didn't stay there long, but . . . I saw him," Cartman continued. "In the corner, next to the door. The darkest place in the room. I wouldn't have even noticed him, if Kenny hadn't have moved."

"He wasn't dead?" Kyle asked, forgetting his ' my lips are sealed' state. "He was still alive?"

"Yes," Cartman responded, nodding a little. He had his arms crossed behind his back in the familiar way he did, before the pacing set in. Kyle felt an exasperated tinge of irritation. "He was alive, and struggling. And restrained by someone, most likely one of those things that attacked you guys Friday night. He looked a lot like the one that was trying to kill Butters."

"And you didn't _do _anything?" Kyle demanded, his irritation bleeding into his voice. "You just stood back, and _left, _while he was--"

"If you'd just shut up and listen, Jewboy, you'd know that that's what I was _trying _to do all along," Cartman snapped, his eyes blazing. It was common for them to blaze, yes, but not in this way. Not in this tortured, _human _way that made him appear on the finest fringes of madness. It took Kyle's words away. Took away his words, _and _his anger. "As soon as I saw them, they were gone. _Vanished. _I don't know how, but somehow that guy escaped with Kenny without using the door. Like he teleported or something, just like me."

"Yeah, dude. I know what you're talking about," Stan affirmed, looking up from the floor. His chin was in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. "That happened to us, when I was really close to killing one. He vanished before I could finish the job."

"Yeah. Exactly," said Cartman, apparently more patient with Stan. What was new? "It was just like that. He was gone in the blink of an eye."

_But then why did you leave us, fatass? _Kyle thought. He wanted to say this out loud, but did not; only turned the matter over and over in his mind, as he'd been forced to do several times in the last three days. If Cartman had saw Kenny be taken by one of those _things, _why would he just _leave _without saying a word? Sure, the kid was heartless a lot of the time. But for Cartman to run instead of fight, especially when their lives were threatened or something threatened _Kenny . . . _somehow, that didn't seem plausible. Kyle wasn't sure how, but _some_how.

_He doesn't have a lot of remorse, _He thought, staring at the floor, _But I know he can have _some. _He didn't leave us last time, did he? So why would he now? _"I left because I wanted to see if I could follow them," Cartman said, answering his question. The opaque sharpness had bled from his voice, and it now seemed raw and vulnerable. "I thought that, you know, if I think of a _place _I can go there . . . But why not a _person? _Why couldn't I think of a person, and teleport _there?" _

Kyle nodded. _That _seemed sensible. And suddenly all the rage and hatred he'd harbored for Cartman these last couple of days seemed hollow and fruitless, _and _worthy of an apology. He didn't want to do it. And unless the situation called for it, he _wouldn't. _But Cartman was definitely deserving of it, for the first time in his life. He had to commend him for that.

"Did it work?" He asked, feeling the winds of change tide him over in Cartman's direction. Now, he didn't just _believe _Cartman; he _wanted _to believe Cartman. Stan's believing him so quickly suddenly seemed more than simply his nature-- it seemed _common sense. _

He stared at Cartman tensely, suspense gripping his entire body as he waited for an answer. A _yes _would have sufficed, maybe even a _nod . . . _but Kyle wasn't surprised when he received not even that. Of _course. _Everything just had to be hard lately, didn't it?

"No," said Cartman, shaking his head. Kyle couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard self-resentment in his voice. The way a person feels when they believe something is _entirely _their fault. "I ended up at Kenny's _house. _But he wasn't there."

"Do you know why? Like . . . Maybe you thought of Kenny's house instead, and that's why you ended up there?" Kyle asked, hoping beyond hope.

"I don't know," said Cartman, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "I don't know anything, except that it didn't work."

There was a pause in the room. Kyle continued to look at Cartman, his feelings toward the author of a lot of his woes considerably softened for the time being. He would have said something else, offered a little encouragement . . . Because if anyone knew how it felt to have your powers fail you, it was he. Hell, he knew enough to pass out _pamphlets._

But he didn't think that was Cartman's main problem, here. Yes, a part of it _was _the fact that his powers hadn't worked the way he'd wanted them to . . . But Kyle had another feeling that a large part of Cartman's problem was fear. Not fear of what might happen to Kenny, but fear that the latest little encounter could have ended up a lot like it had last time. And could he be blamed for that? No. Of course not. They _all _felt that way, and Cartman's arm had been broken in a way that rivaled Butters' leg right _now. _

The silence got to where Kyle couldn't stand it. He said the first thing that came to mind, all in the hopes of dissolving the uncomfortable mist that had fallen over the room.

"So . . . You guys think Kenny's with _them?" _He asked, looking at Stan. His best friend was still sitting with his chin propped in his hands, his eyes studying the floor. Not sorry, as Cartman's appeared, but _thoughtful. _This made Kyle see a little ray of hope behind the thick layer of _absolutely screwed._ "You think they took him? That he's not dead?"

"I _know _they took him," said Cartman, his voice a little sarcastic, "But I don't know if he's _dead. _Probably, though. What else happens when big, strong men kidnap little kids? They're usually perverts, dude. They probably had their way with him and tossed his head in a ditch."

Kyle ignored this primary example of Cartman's blunt extremism. It might have even been laughable, if not under such dire circumstances; It was just so perfectly _Cartman._

"I don't know about any of that, dude. But I think there's a way we can find out," Stan replied, apparently ignoring it as well.

"How? How would we do that, when we don't even know where Kenny _is?"_

Stan didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes fixed at the ground, not sad but _thoughtful, _his eyebrows furrowed gently above them. It was a complete about face from that lazily uninterested body language of before, and a complete _180 _from the way he'd been acting last night. Whatever was going on inside of his head, it was enough to make him seem bipolar. Kyle just hoped it was for the better.

After a moment, Stan raised his head again. His face looked determined, if not just a little unsure.

"What if I was to try and _project _to Kenny?" He asked, looking at both Cartman _and _Kyle. Mostly at Kyle, who could be trusted as the most _logical _in situations such as these. "I mean, I know you couldn't get to him, Cartman . . . But it's worth a try, isn't it? And projection works differently than teleportation. I haven't done it a lot, but--"

Kyle stopped listening, there. Because at that word, at _projection, _everything inside his body froze up at once. Not at the power itself. The power itself was as simple as rhyme; a concept easy enough that even a _baby _could figure it out. Being in two places at once. _Viola_. Very simple.

What scared Kyle was not that. What scared him was thinking about the way projection was _done . . . _the way Stan's body slumped like a rag doll and fell like the dead. The way his chest barely moved, as does the chest of one barely alive, and the way you couldn't get a response from him no matter _what _you did. Not until he rejoined the original body, that was, and there was no telling _when _that would happen.

_And he'd be vulnerable, _Kyle thought, posing himself for an argument. _Completely vulnerable. _Too _vulnerable, in the situation we're in now. If one of those guys were to come in, he could kill Stan easier than--_

"Do you really think that's cool?" He asked, trying to put it in a way that might be less confrontational. Lord knew that was the _last _thing they needed . . . And when Stan got in the right spirit, convincing him to change his mind was impossible. That was the key, here. To keep him _out _of that spirit.

"Yeah, dude. What wouldn't be cool about it?" Stan asked. "All I have to do is just think about Kenny. If I just think about him, and concentrate really hard I should be able to just close my eyes and--" He shrugged, as if to say 'I'm off'.

Kyle became aware that he was shaking his head. Slowly, as one does when in crushing denial. "No. No, dude, that's not safe. What if one of those guys were to come in while you were projected? Your real body is completely defenseless! Someone could just walk right up to you, and--"

"We'll be here, though, won't we Kyle?" Cartman asked, a mysteriously smug smile playing on his face. The raw emotion was still there, but buried deep within his eyes. It wouldn't be coming out again for a while. "Unless you're not man enough, you can protect him. With your explosions," Kyle's eyes widened, and he spread his hands. To have this-- to have _anything, _but especially something _this _big-- thrust into his lap was beyond belief. And the life of his _best friend? _What bigger things were there? "Dude! I can't even _control _them most of the time! How am I supposed to defend him, if I can't even--"

"But you said you practiced, earlier."

"Yeah! But not successfully! I _froze _just fine, but when it came to exploding I screwed everything up!"

"You can't keep being this hard on yourself, Kyle. Remember, in the hospital? What I told you?" Stan asked, jumping down from the bed. He came over to Kyle and put a hand firmly on his shoulder, something that was obviously meant to calm his nerves but actually made everything _worse. _"And besides that, if you're really not comfortable with it, there are other ways. You could freeze any attackers, and just wait for me to wake up," He smiled a little, the contagious sort of smile that made Kyle feel like beaming too. _Feel _like beaming. But it just wouldn't make it to his face.

"Who knows," Stan continued. "If things get _really _bad, Cartman could teleport all three of us out of there. It'll be fine." _But NO! _Everything inside of Kyle shouted. _NO! It's not safe!_

He had his mouth opened to say this, had his mind set in the mode to argue . . . until Kenny came up in his mind. Kenny, who had been taken away. Kenny, who was probably helpless, in pain, and every degree of frightened. Sure, he could have been dead, but that was only the best case scenario. The worst? He was still _alive, _and being put through God-knew-what by those awful bastards.

The thought of letting Stan go through with this seemed bad. But then again, the thought of _not _going through with it and vanquishing a possibility of saving Kenny seemed worse. Cartman and Stan were right about this. Their decision might have been a little reckless, but they had their hearts in the right place.

_If Stan wants to do it . . . If he wants to take that risk, then I should let him do it, _Kyle thought, looking at the ground as he worked everything through. It was hard, deciding to sit back and let someone you cared about do something so seemingly _stupid, _but it was their only hope, right? The only thing they had left? _I can do it. _Cartman and I _can do it. We can keep Stan safe._

He looked back up at Stan, managing to smile. It felt like a slow crack gapping open his face, but surprisingly, it was _real_.

"It would be nice if we could know the future now, wouldn't it?" He asked, his smile growing. Unpleasant little thoughts, poisonous like darts, bombarded his mind, but he ignored them. Put up his subconscious defense, and watched them deflect like hail off a windshield.

Stan returned the smile. "Yeah, it would be. But unfortunately, we don't have Kenny to tell it to us. That's what makes this all worth it."

"Are you sure it'll work?" Kyle asked, letting just a little of his worry slip. "Are you sure that something won't go wrong, and you won't end up someplace else _entirely? _Like Cartman?" Stan turned away, jumped back on his bed. He put his back against his pillows and began pulling them around him, creating a comfortable nest for his original body. They'd learned this was a wise action some time ago, the first time Stan had realized that he could astral project. The power had seemed harmless enough, until he'd left his body while standing. He'd woken up with split lips and a concussion.

The way Kyle and Cartman would see it, Stan would be in a deep, deep sleep. But they would never know the way _Stan _would see things. In the end, Kyle supposed it wouldn't matter, because the astral body couldn't sustain any permanent damage . . . But the mind sure could. And things had a potential to be the most damaging when they were contained in the head.

"I don't know, dude," Stan finally replied, relaxing against the pillows. It was hard to tell, but Kyle could sense a bit of nervousness in his best friend's posture; mostly by the way he was shaking. Shaking just slightly, just a _little, _enough to indicate either anxiety or terror. "I don't know anything. But it's worth a try, isn't it?"

Kyle nodded, though he didn't really think so. But Cartman nodded, too, and that would be enough for Stan. _Anything _would be enough for Stan. That just proved one of the things that Kyle hated but also desperately loved about him; a bravery like his was hard to match.

"Good luck, dude," Kyle squeaked. Were there tears collecting in his eyes? He hoped not, because it seemed a little ridiculous. This wasn't a death mission, here. The only way Stan might be in any immediate danger was if any of those monsters picked the time to attack just now, and when Kyle thought about it, that seemed rather implausible. They'd attacked at night the two other times. What would make them break that pattern now?

_I think maybe I'm a little more scared for what he might _see _then what might happen to him, _He thought, watching Stan as he laid amongst the fortress of pillows and softness. Jesus, he wasn't taking any risks this time, was he? And as he watched this, the faint stirrings of a need to yell _NO _kindling in the back of his head, he was struck with a cruel paradox; the thought of those pillows and blankets being the velvety black lining of a coffin. The Terrence and Philip shirt and blue jeans his burial suit, because of course his family would want him to be buried looking natural. The way they'd always _want _to remember him.

His heart sped up. To his surprise, he felt a rising bit of exasperated anger at himself.

_Ridiculous, _He thought, clenching his fists. He felt the familiar pain welling in his ruined wrists and welcomed it like a drug. _Absolutely ridiculous. He'll be fine. _Everything _will be fine. And Cartman and I will be able to protect him._

Kyle tried to believe this. Really _wanted _to believe this. But deep down, in the part of his heart that saw a coffin and a burial suit, he knew it wasn't so. Knew it because Kenny had been taken to a place that might be the literal _hell . .. _and Stan was about to jump in and experience it for himself. _So what_ if he was just testing the water. Any amount of time spent there might be enough to drive him absolutely insane, and what would they do then?

When Stan was satisfactorily laid amongst the comfort that could become his coffin, he became uncharacteristically quiet. Kyle and Cartman looked on, suspense catching like fish hooks in their brains, waiting for the sign. They weren't sure what that sign would be, but they knew there would _be _one . . . Because when the soul separated the body, there was _always _a sign. It could be something as little as a sigh to something as big as defecating yourself . . . Something they'd _all _been well learned about, through the death of a certain good friend.

And when Stan let out the tiniest of sighs, barely audible unless you were listening your hardest, and slumped even farther into the pillows, things could not have been clearer.

His chest moved slowly, shallowly. Seeing this struck reflexive fear into Kyle's heart, and he might have tried to wake him . . . But he knew it would do no good.

Because where there was his best friend before, there was nothing but an empty shell, now.

Stan was gone.

*****************************************************************

By the time Wendy Testaburger reached the room she'd been looking for all along, she'd had a good hour or two to reflect on what she was doing. She'd been hoping it wouldn't take so long, so that her mind would _not _have had such a free range to wonder . . . But Hell's Pass Hospital was a long ways away, and her bike was locked up in the garage. She'd, of course, _tried _to beg her father to get it out in her best I'm-your-only-daughter-and-you-need-to-spoil-me-while-you-have-me voice, but Wendy was no such girl and her father no such _idiot._ He'd refused to get the bike out of the garage, stating 'It was game day, and his ass didn't _leave _the couch' and then promptly excused her to fetch him a beer.

Wendy's cheeks had heated with rage, and she'd thought to argue-- after all, her mission was _light years _more important than some muscle-brained idiots climbing over each other for what seemed a ball, but was actually a big fat _paycheck-- _but in the end, chose not to. After all, arguing might get her _grounded. _And while she thought that her mission was important enough to warrant sneaking out, causing trouble with her parents seemed unnecessary. Especially when she had two legs that worked just as well, if not just a bit slower.

And so, she walked.

She didn't let herself think about what she was doing for a good long while. She kept her face straight forward, watching the sun glint of the snow and the birds flit in the melting puddles, pretending like she had no reason to feel guilty. And, really, it took a while of thinking to see why she _should _feel guilty . . . Because she had a gift, and there was somebody who needed it. Turning away from that person wasn't right, now was it? To let them lay in that hospital bed and scream their nights away in agony? Wendy had never thought before that things like these, like her _gift, _were possible, but in the last couple of weeks she'd come to find out they invariably _were. _And if a person were given a certain one of these gifts, what better way to use them than to help those in need? _There is no other way, _She thought, shoving her hands in her pockets as the chilly breeze chapped at her skin. Her scarf billowed behind her, blowing in sharp snaps that reminded her of a flag up on a pole. _Not helping could be considered one of two things: torture, maybe even _murder.

Thinking this made her feel good, for a while. She actually let it carry her half-way there, her hair tugging behind her in the wind and a contented smile on her wind-kissed, red-cheeked face . . . Until she happened to come to a certain street corner, and realized she would have to go down a street by the name of Bonanza.

All of her confidence in the mission was compromised, suddenly. Were she able to bypass Bonanza, she would have done it, if only to pass up a great amount of emotional pain; but there were no other options, here. Not unless she wanted to take a rather winding _long-cut, _the sort of thing that would cost her about five hours and probably earn her a few police cars responding to a missing child call. The one-and-a-half hours this little venture would take already was risky enough. Best not to add on any unnecessary time.

_I suppose I could turn back, if I really wanted to, _She thought, hugging the street sign pole and pressing the cold steel against her cheek. It wobbled dangerously in its little ring of white-topped grass, ready to take the plunge at the next tap in the right direction. _I wouldn't even have to pass his house. I could go home, warm up some hot chocolate and study for that science test tomorrow. Maybe I could even ask him to come and study with me. It would give us one more chance to talk this over._

She considered this thought for a moment, and actually took a few steps in the direction she'd come before deciding against it. It seemed like an easy way out. A piece of cake, really, considering all the things it would save her: a long walk, and a conscience shot to hell from violating an important promise she'd made with her boyfriend.

_But that would do nothing but prolong Butters' suffering. Not end it, _She thought, turning around once more. Feeling her hair whip back in her face, stinging her sensitive skin. As much as she wanted to think this wasn't true, she knew it would be; because, even though Stan had a tendency to bow down to anything she wanted, this was one issue that his spirit had definitely come out on. And he'd given no sign of ever backing down. On most things she could whittle his resistance a little at a time until he finally bowed to her will . . . But on this, he was as set as stone. He wouldn't budge.

_And so it'd be a waste of the both of our time for me to turn back, now. A waste of the both of _our _time, as well as the friend's he's letting lie in the hospital right now. _

The slightest amount of anger inflated her being, at that. Not at Stan, or at least, not _exactly-- _but enough in his direction that it gave her the power to begin walking down the street.

She could see his house in the distance. Both cars were in the driveway, but things seemed pretty stale from where she stood. She doubted anyone in the house would be alert enough or would _care _enough to pick up her presence, besides Stan, and if he was still where he'd been when she'd called him this morning he'd be snoozing comfortably in his bed. He'd sounded absolutely exhausted. And she didn't blame him.

_So it's easy. A piece of cake, _She thought, walking a little faster. The quicker she passed his house the better. _I just pass his house, and the deed is done. I'll have officially broken the promise I made to him, and I'm on my way to do what I need to do._

Her pace quickened, to what could better be called a slow run. She came up on the familiar setting of Stan's house, suddenly feeling at home among Mrs. Marsh's bright garden in the front yard and the miniature snowman she and Stan had made not five days ago. It was half-way melted, with its little stick arms sank to its butt and the carrot nose an orange spike pointing downward within the mush . . . But it brought back such a crushing wave of nostalgia that it nearly brought Wendy to tears. That snowman had been before all of this. Not much before, because Stan had already told her his secret and she'd already told him hers-- but enough before that it made her heart ache for that time. In that time, just _five days ago, _keeping her secret like Stan wanted had seemed no big deal. Because nobody had been _hurt. _And then she had woken up on Saturday morning, her mind inflated with hopes of a happy and fun-filled weekend, and found out that everything had went all to hell.

Stan had told her they were in danger. That _she'd _be in danger, if she let her power be revealed. She had to admit she'd doubted it before. But after hearing from Stan everything that had happened on Friday night, how Butters had ended up critically injured and why he'd had a very severe asthma attack, she could no longer deny it was true.

That had been his intention all along in telling her, she gathered. To scare her just enough that she'd comply with his plans, and keep her powers secret in exchange for guarding her safety.

_Oh, please, _She thought, turning her sight away from his house as she passed it. Frigid air caught the tears collecting in the corners of her eyes, chilling them to her skin. _Surely he knows me better than _that.

Not much longer after that and his house was officially passed. Nobody took notice of her and shouted out, thank God, and her petty emotional hang-ups had not been enough to send her running back. This whole thing was for real, now. All of the plans she'd stored up safe in her head through yesterday and last night were officially executed, _all_ _systems_ _go. _She was actually doing this. And turning back now, while plausible, would be impossible if she wanted to live with herself.

_Sorry about this, Stan, _She thought, putting her chin up to the wind. Trying to pretend like she was too strong to care, but knowing that her guard would crumble with time. _Sorry, but I've known what I have to do all along. I think you'll understand._

_I _hope _you'll understand._

The rest of the walk was not without its obstacles, but still expectedly easy. An hour later, when the snow had melted a little further and the sun had drifted to the place that marked just past four in the sky, she found herself entering the sliding glass doors of Hell's Pass hospital. Fifteen minutes later, after ensuring the desk operators that she was here to visit a friend, she set out to find the very wing she'd come to just last night in order to visit Stan.

And now, after another good twenty minutes of walking, she stood in front of a door. A large, bright-red painted door located in the child's wing, with a clumsily-written paper strip reading _Stotch, Leopold _to the side. She had thought the whole time coming that there might be a possibility she would be nervous, and she realized now that that possibility had been a _big _one. She'd never felt this way before. Almost like gravity itself were pulling her heart down into her stomach; maybe even down into her _bowels._

Despite this feeling, she reached for the doorknob. As she did, Stan's face crossed briefly across her mind-- the way his face would look when he found out she had lied to him; that look of anger mixed with complete and utter hurt-- but somehow, she managed to push him back. She was doing what was right, here. She didn't know how she knew it, but she did, and it felt as natural as the need to urinate.

_Some of us could get hurt, here, _She remembered him saying, a look of raw worry implanted in his eyes. In saying this he had, of course, been _right . . . _but whether it had a bearing on her personal safety or not, her mind was made up. Lying to Stan was going to suck. And when he found out what she had done, there was a huge possibility that he wouldn't speak to her for weeks. None of that mattered.

_It's better to be pissed off than pissed on, _She thought, finally finding the strength to turn the door knob.

When she did, she was greeted with a sight that had been too much to hope for. The sun, just shy of setting, was framed perfectly in the little picture window, sending its beautiful rays of light in every corner of the room. The chairs were empty without a visitor in sight, the floors so shiny they almost appeared transparent. Billowing out of the room by aid of the vents was the faint smell of Pine Sol, and something else she couldn't quite make out. Antiseptic, maybe?

She took her first step inside the room, looked around. Besides the machinery, the hospital bed and the child in it there was nobody there at all. Not a nurse aid, not a visitor. Not even one of his _parents, _which she found passing odd. Odd as it was, though, she couldn't have asked for better luck. It was _perfect _timing.

_But if things like my gift are real, there's a good chance _jinxes _are, too. So I'd better get moving._

She walked to Butters' bedside, hoping beyond hope that he was still asleep. If he was, there might _at least _be a chance that Stan wouldn't become so angry with her . . . And, on some level not surprisingly, he _was. _He had a blanket thrown over him all the way up to just beneath his chin, his hands bunched together into tiny white fists. His head was leaned backwards on the pillows and a little to the side, his mouth open wide as if to catch the flies. Gentle snores sounded from his open mouth, quiet enough to be considered heavy breathing. A tiny trickle of drool made its way from the corner of his mouth.

Wendy couldn't help but smile. If he knew she was seeing him this way, he'd surely be embarrassed. It felt wrong to stand here and look at him, taking pride in this very fact, so she chose to get down to business. She could make out his leg beneath the blankets, a long and swollen log that was _much_ bigger than the other. This was obviously her target; unless his legs looked _naturally _like beached whales.

She picked up the edge of the blankets carefully in her hand. _Carefully. I have to move carefully. He might be shot up with pain killers, but that doesn't mean he won't wake up. Then all this secrecy will have been for nothing. _She lifted the blanket a little while studying Butters' face, his chest patterns, all to make sure everything stayed the same. When it did she let out a sigh of relief and considered it safe to move further.

The light was declining as the sun set. She knew this by the growing shadows cast by the blanket, which almost obstructed her view of the leg. This meant nothing, except that she might have to turn the light on; and that maybe her trip home might be a little less safe than it had been before. It was hard to care about that, with such a trying task coming up in the future.

She flipped the blanket back gently, lying it atop Butters' groin and opposite leg. Once this was through she was left looking at something that could best be described as a _mess-- _a thick, hard bandage partway soaked with blood. He'd had surgery, most likely, and she'd been expecting that . . . But why should the damned bandage be so _big? _Could she even _heal _the leg like this?

_I don't know. But it's worth a try, _She thought, looking at the shadow-laced bandage with something like disappointment touching on her face. It struck brief horror into her to know that, even though the bandage looked as thick as rhinoceros hide, the leg was still bleeding enough to seep partway through it. _If I can't heal him, that's unfortunate but okay. At least I'll have done everything I can to help._

She took her mittens off. Studying his face the entire time, watching his chest rise up and down in its repeated lazy rhythm, she laid her hands gently upon the hard surface of the bandage. It felt rough, serrated. Unpleasant beneath her hands. Something inside of her-- intuition, maybe-- voiced a negative croak inside of her head.

_You can't heal him unless you're touching his skin. It's not going to work through the bandage. It's not even worth a try._

Listening to this negative voice-- _whoever _it was, maybe Stan, maybe her father, but probably not-- Wendy slid her hands down the bandage, and placed them on the skin surrounding either side. In final position her top hand rested on Butters' leg mid-thigh and the bottom just above the ankle, creating an awkward, stretched-out position through her chest. The wound was between her hands, not directly beneath them, encased in the plaster tomb of the bandage . . . But she really didn't think that mattered. She'd been getting good at this. Better and better. Simply placing her hands _near _the wounds should be _more _than enough to start the magic.

She took one last look at Butters. There was a small amount of change, like maybe his mouth had closed a tad; but that was okay. Just as long as he didn't wake up screaming.

_O.K. Let's do this._ Quick.

She bit her lip. Closing her eyes softly, she focused on the warmth high up in her shoulders, concentrated in the hollow area just above her heart. The warmth was always there, she was _sure _of it, but never so clearly felt unless it was needed. As it was surely was _now. _Wendy could _feel _the seriousness of the damage inside Butters' body in her hands, creating sharp little pains like rubber bands snapping against her palms. These queer sensations seemed to travel up her entire arms.

_There's more hurt than just in his legs, _She thought. _Knowing, _somehow. _This isn't even the least of it. There's a lot more work to do._

She began pulling the warmth in her chest down, toward the rivers of her arms and eventually the spout of her palms. It traveled down painfully slow, feeling almost like a visible puff of smoke traveling inside of her. Butters stirred a little beneath her hands, obviously picking up on the energy building up. She didn't care. It was too late now.

_It has to come out, _She thought, closing her eyes ever tighter as the warmth made it to her wrists and swelled like a wildfire. Her eyelashes pressed against her upper cheeks, creating spiky patterns like spider's legs. _I have to get it out. It . . . Doesn't belong._

There was a moment of unpleasantness. Then the warmth was suddenly pouring through her palms as it had been meant to do, coupled with a mild pain that felt like the little veins in them were coated in some sort of neurotic acid. She let loose a little moan, at this, but she wasn't sure if that was the thing that spilled Butters back into the world of the awake. She had a feeling it was the _warmth_ that had done that.

"Wendy?" She heard from the head of the bed beside her. Butters, of course, his voice sounding a well-blended mixture of confused and groggy. Maybe even a little _scared, _but she wasn't paying well enough attention to be able to tell.

_Come out, damn you, _She thought at the unpleasant warmth pouring from her palms. The little snapping-rubber-band pains began to fade and diminish, thankfully, taking her from the world of _pain _and back into that of _discomfort. _Had she not been concentrating so hard, she'd have taken the moment to be glad. The fading of the radiating pains could only mean her gift was working.

_It means the hurt is going away, _She thought, feeling a surge of tears tangle in the lace of her eyelashes.

"Wendy? What are you doing? Your hands are burning my leg." _Oh, you don't know the _meaning_ of burning, _She thought, feeling the little veins in her palms scream as the last of the warmth began to come through.

Finally, the last of it reached the surface of her palms. She felt it building there, building up and up and up, and then it was gone, transferred into Butters' body. Forever _free _of her own. No matter what wonderful things it could do, having it free of her made her feel as ecstatic as if she'd just dislodged a demon from her back.

_It's done, _She thought, removing her hands from Butters' leg. Rubbing her palms, which felt numb and buzzing, on the front of her coat. Sniffing back the tears that had unwillingly made their way beneath her eyelids. _It's all done. _Everything.

She heard a rustle from the bed in front of her. Knowing it was Butters she opened her eyes, and smiled at him as if she'd just walked into the room.

"Hey, Butters," She said casually, playing up on this 'just walked into the room' mood and tone. "How do you feel?"

The look that crossed Butters' face was so complicated that she giggled. It was a strange mixture, if she'd ever seen one; a mixture of happiness, confusion, and perhaps just a wee bit of panic. He was leaning up on his outstretched arms like a seal in reverse position, the top of his back shoved nervously against the plastic bed rail, his shoulders shaking just slightly. But the leg, still encased in that horrific tomb of plaster and fabric, remained completely and unnaturally still.

He blinked at her. His eyes widened a bit, the way they might do if he were staring at the second coming of Jesus Christ.

"Huh . . . Hey, Wendy," He stammered, adjusting his shaking hands beneath him. He seemed to calm down a little, but not enough to dash that look from his eyes. Wendy had to cup a hand over her mouth to quiet more giggles.

"I . . . I feel all right, I guess. But . . . Not to be rude, or nuthin, but what are you doing here, Wendy? Were you up here to see Stan?"

Wendy ignored his question and pointed at his leg instead. "How does your leg feel? It doesn't hurt anymore, does it?"

He seemed reluctant, but his gaze fleetingly left her face and flickered down to the great log that had eaten his leg instead. The blood that had permeated the cloth was still there, but Wendy had _expected _that; after all, it was no longer a part of his body anymore. It was nothing but deposited debris, as crude and as useless as his own feces or urine.

He licked his lips. His tongue looked blood red against his wane face.

"Well . . . No. It doesn't," He chirped, his cheerful voice dampened with slight disbelief. He looked back up at her, that looked of stumped fear replaced with a familiar smile. "It feels mighty nice, actually. Better than it has since that man broke it." Wendy returned his smile. Butters seemed to reflect on what he had said a moment, wiggling the leg that was obviously free of pain, and then his pale face became even whiter.

He clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, Christmas," He moaned, his eyes dropping to his lap. They glittered in the florescent lighting, cluing Wendy in that tears may have been soon to follow. "I wasn't supposed to say anything. Stan and Kyle told me to keep it a, secret."

Wendy stepped forward and laid a hand on the _gi-normus _cast. Butters acted as if he might flinch, but calmed down slowly as he realized there would be no pain. It was a beautiful thing to see cross someone's face, Wendy thought. In a way, it could be comparable to a cancer patient that has just learned he's in remission.

"It's okay. Don't worry about what Stan and Kyle told you," She said, watching the stunned smile remake itself on his face. It made her feel good enough that breaking the promise to Stan seemed suddenly worth it, and she instantly questioned _why _she hadn't done this sooner. It wasn't so hard, was it? Just another short wall hurdled? "It's okay. Your secret's safe with me." He looked back down at the cast, at her hand on it. He let out a small, tentative laugh, the sort of thing one utters when not wanting to jinx a sudden happiness.

"It doesn't hurt at all anymore!" He exclaimed happily, obviously forgetting his former guilt. Wendy couldn't help but giggle again, at his exuberance. "It feels just like the other one! Like it's not even broken anymore!"

Wendy nodded. "That's right. It's not. Everything's all right now."

"But how? I had to have surgery, and then the doctor told me it would take me almost a month to get better. And then to make that worse, my parents told me I'm grounded when I get home. 'The hospital is expensive', they said. And I don't remember how, but they said I destroyed my room! I've got to stop being such a bad son, that's what! I have to start learning from my actions!"

Wendy nodded at this, absently. She found herself looking at that little picture window, watching the sun as it left the sky. The world outside was now several rich shades of orange, pink and red, the neighborhoods she had to walk through most likely cast with shadows. Any hopes of getting home before the sky became dark were impossible, but there still may be a chance she could get home before seven-thirty. At the worst case scenario, she supposed, she could stop by Stan's house and stay the night. That was, hoping he hadn't found out what she'd done before then, of course. If he had, she supposed could kiss any of these hopes _good-bye._

_No. That's bull, _She thought, turning back to Butters. _Even if he _was _angry at me, I don't think he'd turn me away. I can count on him. But . . ._

Getting home still seemed like the best option. Not only on safety's bearings, but also on those of her _parents, _who would be calling her for dinner before eight. If she wasn't there, South Park would likely be a field day of police searches before ten.

"Wendy?" Butters asked, snapping her out of the day dream. He'd set up fully now, something that would have been impossible five minutes before. What would the doctors think when they changed the dressing? What when they saw that a leg that would have taken _months _to heal had recovered itself in just past two days?

_If I'm lucky, they'll think it's a miracle, _Wendy thought nervously, knowing deep down inside that this wouldn't be so. The word 'miracle' was just as make-believe to doctors as the word 'monster' was taught to be to all children.

"Wendy? Are . . . Are you okay?" Butters asked again, leaning slightly forward. "Your eyes look all fuzzy."

Wendy blinked a few times, _hard. _"Yes. I'm okay," But just as the word came out of her mouth, the word _okay, _she began to think maybe she wasn't so much so. Because little flares of poison, little things called _worries, _suddenly began to bombard her at once. What _would _the doctors think when they uncovered Butters' leg? What would happen if she couldn't get home on time? And now that she'd done this, how would this affect Stan? Stan, Kyle, and Kenny?

_What's done is done, what's passed is passed, _She thought, pushing Stan's face to the back of her mind for the third time that day. _There's nothing I can do to change it._

"Hey, Wendy? It was you that fixed my leg, right? How did you do it?"

Wendy answered him reflexively, without thinking about what the truth may cause. And, really, what _could _it cause? She'd already dug herself deep enough, despite whatever dangers. A little further couldn't possibly hurt.

"Easy. I fixed it just the way that Stan can move things without touching them," She replied, keeping her response brisk and easy. _Simple, _so Butters' first reaction wouldn't be to become the town crier. And it didn't seem like it would be. His eyes widened, a little, but nothing more. "I fixed it in the same way that Kyle can explode things, and the same way _you _make force fields. I can just . . . do it." "Wow! Does Stan know?" "Yes. He's the first person I told." "That's strange. I wonder why he didn't tell any of us before?"

Wendy had no answer to this. She looked at the floor, trying to make the gesture appear thoughtful and not wretched. Good thing her chest wasn't see-through. Butters would have seen a heart that twisted like a rag.

After a moment Butters said, "Well, I guess it's good none of those bad men came after you, huh? Kyle told me that he and Stan almost got _killed _by some of them! Can you believe that? I was just lying on my bed, trying to go to sleep and then _Ka-Blamo!"_

Wendy smiled on the outside, though it felt drawn on. "Yes. I heard about that."

"Yeah! I'm just so glad that I have friends like Stan and Kyle. Why, if it weren't for them I don't think I'd be here right now." "You're right about that. They're both really good guys."

Butter continued talking, rattling on about this and that. At first it was evident that he was talking about the attack, complaining about how he'd been rudely woken up by some big man with huge muscles and 'really wonky eyes' . . . but the longer he rattled on, the more his subject broadened. He went from there to his parents sending him to his room, and then from there to getting interrupted while playing hopscotch with Clyde. His tendency to ramble could be annoying, but she'd never been more thankful. Thanks to his flippant mind, discovering her secret appeared to have no serious weight on him at all.

_Thank God for innocence, _She thought with a smile. _Thank God for _Butters.

She let him go on until the mountains had swallowed everything but the very tip of the sun. After that she interrupted the newly recovered Butters-- who felt, obviously, _much _better-- and told him that she'd have to leave, a statement that brought dripping disappointment to Butters' face. It made her feel slightly bad, but that was okay. Judging by what she'd done to his leg he wouldn't be in the hospital much longer.

"I have to go now, but make sure you don't get out of bed, okay? Let your doctors discover what's happened when they change your bandage. Don't tell them yourself."

"Why not? Then I might get to go home earlier. That would be mighty nice."

"Yeah, I know. But if you tell them, they're more likely to suspect something's up. Just keep quiet about it, okay? I'd really appreciate it."

Butters paused, a moment. A short look of thought crossed his brow, but it didn't last long. When someone asked him to do something, he usually didn't debate it anyway. That was one of the many _beautiful _things about Leopold Stotch.

After this moment he said, "Oh . . . Okay. I won't say anything."

Wendy shot him a true smile. A _relieved _smile.

"Okay. Thank you." She began heading for the door. She was almost there, the smell of Pine Sol and what was almost certainly antiseptic leaving her nose for the faint, nauseating scent of general hospital aroma, when Butters' voice stopped her one last time. She might not have answered him at all, in her drive to get home before her parents could suspect . .. But his question was so heart-warming and touching that it was all she could do not to cry.

"Hey, Wendy?" Butters asked, the crisp sheets rustling as he turned in his bed to face her.

She turned to face him. Surprisingly there was no irritation, though a voice deep inside of her _screamed _that it was time to leave. Hell, more than _screamed. Ordered. _Somehow, she managed to ignore it. Even though she heard it as loud as if someone were screaming it into her ear, she tuned it out as easily as she had Butters' ramblings earlier.

"Yes, Butters?" She asked patiently. Just a little shakily.

She was shocked to see that his eyes were deeply concerned, and lined with water. Probably not tears, or at least the ones that were related to crying . . . But they still struck something in her heart as powerfully as a gong. She had seen the look somewhere before. Somewhere on the face of someone who was deeply concerned about her, and wanted all the world for her to remain safe in this time of great danger.

_Stan_, She thought, the beeps of the heart monitors creating a steady rhythm with her pulse, which suddenly seemed as if it were thumping way too slow. _When he warned me not to use my powers, he looked at me in exactly the same way. With exactly the same tears._

For a moment, a part of her thought this _was _Stan looking at her. A part of her took the innocent Butters Stotch out of this picture and replaced him with the face of her boyfriend, who had seemed unreasonable and selfish but was _really _only looking out for her well-being. It was all that he had meant all along, even when he'd become so adamant that he'd seemed down right _jerky. _It was all that he _ever _meant to do.

_Oh, Stan_, She thought, swallowing back tears. _What have I done?_

When Butters spoke, it shattered the remnants of this painful illusion. This was something she was very glad about; else, she might have started bawling.

"Are you sure you're going to be safe walking by yourself in the dark, Wendy?" He asked, looking frail and small in the bulky hospital bed. There were two perfect dots of color on his cheeks, definite signs of health and prosper. If he wasn't home by tomorrow afternoon, she'd be vastly surprised. "Maybe you should stay here for the night. You can sleep on the little visitor bed."

Wendy didn't have to look at this 'little visitor bed' to know that it was probably vastly uncomfortable. And she didn't have to look through her mind to decide that she would refuse, either. Not only that it was an unreasonable request. It was just . . . something in her head. Maybe that negative little voice from earlier? "That's okay, Butters. I'll be fine. But thank you," She replied, heading back toward the door.

He spoke up again. She stopped in her tracks, this time, but did not turn back around.

"But hey, Wendy . . . What if those bad men attack you, too? Because you're alone?"

Wendy thought on this, a moment. But, truthfully, she really doubted it. After all, why _would _they? She hadn't had an encounter with them before; and, besides, if she did, what happened happened. She'd dug her own grave, and Stan had warned her. She was not a dumb girl, but responsibility could at times make a person so. This was one of those cases.

And so she ignored the possibility, giving it barely a fleeting thought.

Giving it more would have been wise.

"I doubt it. Stan's meeting me halfway, anyway," She lied, progressing toward the door way. Not wanting to give him another chance to speak, just in case he accidentally convinced her to stay. At the rate she was going, that was very possible. Everything was making her question at the drop of a hat. "There's no need to worry. I'll be okay."

Butters might have nodded, but she didn't take the time to see. She strode from the door as quickly as possible, so briskly that her long hair lifted from her shoulders.

By the time she'd left the hospital, she felt nothing. No guilt, no happiness, no reason to be frightened. Everything seemed to leave her in the cool breeze of the night, lifting her hang-ups in the wind and blowing them from her body. It could never have been more convenient, because Wendy knew this would be a _long _walk; and long walks brought long thoughts.

_Maybe I _should _stop by Stan's anyway, _She thought, aware that the night was strangely quiet. Not even the _trash _seemed willing to move, and this was strange beyond believing. _Maybe I should just go ahead and tell him what I've done. Just use it as an excuse to stay there instead of trying to walk home._

She considered this for a while, but eventually decided against it. It seemed too strange, she thought. Too _catty. _To show up to your guy's house and then tell him you lied to him, only to ask if you could spend the night because you were dumb enough to walk off alone? _Ridiculous. _She could never do it.

If she'd have known she was being followed, the prospect might have seemed just a little brighter. But she had no idea, and thus she continued on into the night, clueless of the fact that she should probably have listened to Butters.

___________________________________________________________________________

Hey, guys! When I said this chapter was long, I said a mouth full, didn't I! But _boy, _am I proud of it. What I'm even _more _proud of is the fact that I managed to rattle the thing out in a week!

Okay, so we've got two things going on, here. Wendy's in obvious danger and Stan has astral projected to try and find Kenny. We see the conclusions to both of these things-- I think-- in the next chapter, but just what happens? I don't know! Read onto find out! But classes start on Teusday, so the updates might become a little slow. I wrote the first two chapters during _exams, _however, and things didn't get too hectic . . . Let's just pray it happens that way again!

Peace out!

-Aub


	7. Intruder

Hey, fellas! Welcome to another chapter that's _bound _to become just as long as the last! I'll try not to make it so, considering how I know a lot of you had to make two trips to read it . . . But there's a lot going on, here. I'm not sure how well I'll do.

I knew exactly how to start this chapter. I knew exactly what would _happen, _too . . . I just wasn't sure exactly how to write it. I knew, at the very least, that it would _have _to have a number of scenes coming from Stan's point of view. And I also knew, without a doubt, that I had two questions to answer in the near future, whether they be answered in this chapter alone or followed up in the one after it. Would Stan make it to Kenny, and what would he find there if he did? And, secondly, would the evil following Wendy make its final attack on her as she made her way home? On this second question, we should certainly hope not . . . Because our boys are compromised, for now. I guess you'll have to read on to find out!

Now, I know I'll answer at least _one _of those questions here. Or at least _part _of one. But in order to tie everything together in a neat, believable way (or, at least, as believable as stories like these can become) I have quite some writing ahead of me. And I'm sure that, if I do it well, you'll all be as proud of it as I will be.

Now I have an even _bigger _question raging in my head. How am I going to end this strange, long-winded tale that has somehow become The Inheritors? To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I started this story with a simple premise-- the boys inheriting magical powers-- and it has somehow evolved into this plot rich, sometimes soap-opery thing with open ends coming out the wazzoo. I don't know if the end is near or not, but I doubt it. If it were, we'd _all _be left with a lot of questions.

All right. Without any further ramblings, I'd like to take the time to thank all of my general supporters. I'd also like to take the time to say that I do not own South Park, nor the powers I have given to its characters. Props for those goes to Charmed. (I don't own Disneyland either J)And after all the crap I'd like to take the time to introduce you to chapter seven--Intruder!

-Aub

_____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 7: Intruder

In a sportily decorated bedroom within a house on Bonanza Street, a young boy appeared to be sleeping in his bed. It was the same bed in which he'd laid upon not two nights earlier, studying the nonsensical theorems of fourth grade mathematics with a concerned girlfriend-- and the same bed that, to a certain best friend, was comparable to the shiny black varnish of a coffin. He lay on his back atop layers of blankets, his sleeping face pointed toward the ceiling, his hands lying limply beside his head upon the pillows. His chest moved slowly, shallowly. So much so that one not really looking would mistake him for not breathing at all.

Beside the bed that looked eerily like a mausoleum, two of his friends stood. One pudgy and still, too prideful to let show even a smidgen of his concern . . . And the other scrawny and pale, his bottom lip being consumed inside his mouth as he chewed it with maniac fervor.

Common to them both was the silence. Kyle wasn't sure if it had come about as a sign of respect toward his best friend or not, but it suddenly seemed an offense to even let loose a subdued sneeze.

_I wonder how long he'll be gone for, _he thought, wincing past the pain of biting his raw, scabbing lip. It proved a valuable chew toy through these times of hardship, no matter _how _much his mother frowned upon the 'unbreakable' habit. _Last time it was only a couple of minutes . . . But the time before that it was a couple of _hours. _And he _himself_ doesn't even know._

He looked back up at the bed, at the sprawled out form of Stanley Marsh. Lying peacefully among the pillows and blankets, his posture looked like an intended impression of Sleeping Beauty . . . Minus the blue dress and long blonde hair, of course. What made the comparison stronger was the fact that they didn't know for how long he'd be asleep. How long had Sleeping Beauty slumbered in that timeless fairy tale? _Years? _From beside him, Cartman made a noise into his hand. It sounded roughly like a snort of laughter, and thankfully stripped Kyle away from Disneyland.

"Hey. Dude. I wonder if we like . . . did something to his body, if he'd wake up," Cartman sputtered, still talking in his hand. He gave another small laugh. "Wouldn't that be _super _funny?"

Kyle frowned. "Did something to his body? Like what do you mean?" "I don't know, like stuck his hands down his pants, or something. Or, wait, wait, better yet, why not stick his hand down one of _our _pants, and take a picture?" He let loose a harsh cackle, the type of nails-on-the-chalkboard thing that sent waves down Kyle's spine. "Wouldn't that be hilarious? Then we could show it to everyone in the entire school!"

Kyle gritted his teeth, clenched his fists. He had a brief inner debate on whether or not to launch himself on Cartman and beat the ever living hell out of him, but eventually decided against it. Beating the shit out of him when they might end up needing him was stupid. But later on, when Stan was safely awake and everything was okay again . . .

_Your teeth will litter this carpet, fatass, _He thought, stepping away from him.

He used the high part of the bed rail as leverage, and pulled himself up onto the bed next to Stan. Looking at him from the floor had been drastic enough, but seeing him from this angle was downright _frightening. _His skin had grown dreadfully pale, almost as white as the pillowcase in which his head now lay. The jet-black shade of his hair against the bright white created a startling contrast, highlighting orbs of red way high on his cheekbones. He was unnaturally still; as still as the dead.

_As still as Sleeping Beauty, when she pricked her finger on the spinning wheel and fell into a cursed slumber, _Kyle thought uneasily, trying to convince himself that, if he touched Stan, his skin would not be stiff and cold.

The bed frame creaked as Cartman climbed up with him. A part of Kyle wanted to get vaguely annoyed, at this; but another part knew that Cartman was just as concerned. He had different ways of showing it, was all.

"How long do you think he'll be out? If he finds Kenny or something, do you think he can come back when he wants to?" Cartman asked, sounding generally curious.

Kyle shook his head. "I don't know, dude. I don't think even _Stan _knows. We just have to wait and see." He grew brave enough to put two fingers on the inside of Stan's terrifyingly pale wrist, where the main veins stood out dramatically like deep blue ropes. He left them there, for a moment, at first feeling his heart drop from his chest when he felt practically nothing . . . But at concentrating a little harder, he discovered the shallow, weak thump of his pulse. It felt as if it were buried beneath something thick, but it was there. There, and fairly steady.

_Phew, _He thought, smiling.

"Damn. He looks like hell," Cartman observed, his voice as nonchalant and unabashed as ever. He picked up one of Stan's pale, cold hands, observed it a second and then dropped it roughly back to the pillow, as if he thought the condition might be contagious. "What if he finds Kenny, and he happens to run into some of those dickholes? They'll turn his ass into creamed corn. He won't even be able to get away."

Kyle shrugged, without taking his eyes off Stan. He couldn't place whether his best friend looked peaceful, deeply haunted or both. "I don't know. But I don't think he can be killed, that way. I don't think they can kill him unless he's in his actual body."

"How do you know that?"

"I _don't. _I just _think."_

As if picking up on the narrow annoyance that had crept into Kyle's voice, Cartman halted in his barrage of questions. He was as quiet as Kyle for a moment, the both of them looking at Stan in his little fortress of pillows as they might look at a body as it was lowered into the grave.

When Cartman spoke again, his voice sounded quiet and reverent. _Cautious, _even.

"What kinds of things do you think he's seeing, right now?"

Kyle didn't answer this immediately. He looked at Stan's deeply asleep face instead, studying it for any signs of awareness or movement. And there _were _none. Nothing but the gentle breaths that rasped like clear wind through his slightly opened mouth, and the roses on his cheeks that seemed to grow deeper by the second. It would have relieved Kyle deeply to see even the bulges of his pupils moving behind the paper-thin sheaths of his eyelids, but there was not even that. Nothing but smooth breathing, and the gentle beat of his pulse in his wrist.

"I don't know, Cartman," he finally replied, his two fingers remaining on the inside of Stan's wrist. And there they would stay, until this little excursion was over with. He just looked too . . . _dead. _"All I can say is that I hope things are as peaceful there as they look here."

Cartman nodded and did not speak again for a long while. Both he and Kyle did nothing else but stare at Stan, trying to wonder at what things he might be seeing. Trying to get just a little inkling of the places his strange talent had taken him, and the dangerous people he might be forced to meet.

On their side of things, all affairs seemed calm and peaceful.

Little did they know that, on Stan's side, things were proving to be a bit more complicated.

****************************************************************

The first thing that struck Stan was that he should have been afraid. The second thing that struck him was that he was not alone, and in very real danger.

When his eyes peered open on his final destination for the first time, it was through the fog of nausea and confusion that often came along for the ride when he projected. He was aware that things around him were a lot _darker _than they had been a second ago, and also a lot _wetter, _as if the air itself were made of a fine water vapor . . . But things like that seemed second nature to the sudden urge to vomit. He could hear voices buzzing all around him, not loud but _close, _perhaps the way a patient might hear the doctors speak as they ascended slowly from the fog of anesthesia. Even through his disorientation, he determined that it would be best to try and locate these phantom voices and _stay away from them. _He had raised his head to do just that when the first wave of retching tightened around his gut like a rubber band.

Unable to do anything but, he bent over and released the vile poison that fought to bring itself from his throat. While doing this, he noted the cold wetness that blanketed his knees and submerged his hands. Water. He was kneeling, _puking, _in shallow water.

_The sewer, maybe? _He thought, studying the slight yellow reflections of lamplights hanging from the ceiling. The water was unnaturally still, save for the gentle vibration caused by the tenor of the adjacent voices. _Could I really have ended up _here? His stomach cramped like spasming muscle, and the last rope of bile made its way from his mouth. After making absolutely sure this was the last of it he scrubbed a wrist across his lips and threw himself back to a sit, wincing at the answering _splash _and sudden dampness of his bottom.

_Hmm. Strange, _He thought, lifting his head weakly and looking all around him. The water nearly sent him sliding onto his back, and he was forced to prop himself by leaning backwards on his palms. _If I can vomit in this state, who says I can't die?_

He tipped his chin and looked up at the ceiling. What caught his eye mostly was the lights, whose glow stopped abruptly in the dark and formed a frosty ring about the lantern. The ceiling in which they hung from was out of view, too high to see . . . But the chains which descended down from it, each supporting a lantern, were dusty and grey. Despite their considerable length they were still, undisturbed by not the slightest breeze nor jostle. Not even the deep tenor of voices--were they coming closer? A part of Stan deep down thought so, but this could have been blind paranoia-- rattled their position.

The shadows they cast on the walls, which looked like long, beckoning snakes wriggling against the back drop of whitish-grey cinder blocks and mortar, gave Stan the willies. But, then again, _everything _about this place gave Stan the willies. The feeling in the air was chill and deadly. It was the sort of thing that gave him the idea that _many _people had been scared here-- and not just monsters-under-the-bed-scared. This was _real _scared. Scared as real as the shallow water in which he now sat, and the obdurate slabs of cinder that made up the narrow walls. Scared so pungent that it put a taste on his tongue.

_Or maybe that's just the vomit, _He thought, bracing a hand to the wall and beginning to stand.

He looked perfectly forward and never once let his pupils dash toward the ground, lest the sight of his shaking knees finally plunge him into the muck. And, in the end, he was glad he'd done this. Because where at first the passage in which he had found himself had seemed long and endless--- a hallucination brought on by the fountain of excrement that had been surging up his throat, no doubt-- he could now see that it was actually short and winding, with several little dashes in the stone. Passages, maybe? Beyond the stretch that he could see, the narrow, water-laced hallway took a gradual curve that defeated the limits of his vision. It was from here that the voices-- faint, but gaining-- drifted in on the misty air.

Looking around at the place, Stan could only compare it to one thing off the top of his head. He would have said a castle, were it not for the condition and quality of the air; but judging by these two things, he had a feeling he was somewhere underground. Underground, and most likely in something that was meant to serve some other purpose, at some time, but was now vastly forgotten. His former idea of a sewer was preposterous. This water was too _clean._

_And I can thank God for that, _He thought, kicking his feet a bit in the water. Feeling nothing but pleasant fluidity as it flowed, arrow-shaped, past the tip of his shoe. _I don't know if I'd carry poo back with me or not, but I know I'd have a hard time explaining _that _one to my parents._

There was a sharp rap against one of the walls, somewhere far in the distance. Alongside those murmuring voices, perhaps? Stan gasped and flinched back, feeling himself begin to curl instinctively into a little ball. It was a stupid reaction, but expected-- what _else _might he do in order to defend himself? Pray real hard and hope he became invisible?

_Wait, _he thought nervously, trying to sort out each thought carefully through the panicked tangle of his mind. _Wait. One of those gaps in the wall. The _passages. _I can make it to one of them before the voices catch up to me._

Could he? He didn't know. He wasn't sure exactly _how _fast the voices were gaining, but they certainly weren't getting any slower. And time was of a valuable essence. Astral body or not, he was on a mission, here . . . And getting caught by these assholes would _not_ get him to Kenny. It might land him in captivity somewhere during the minutes or _hours _before he rejoined his original body, but _certainly _not to Kenny.

So thinking this, he began towards the first passage he could see. It wasn't so far, _maybe _five yards, but walking through water while keeping noise at a minimum was a slow process. He could have barreled across to the door in less than fifteen seconds, but odds were he would have been heard. _Not _good. And so his progress was slowed to an awkward, shuffle-footed lumber, ballooning the legs of his jeans out at the calves.

As he walked, he heard the first audible words from the gaining intruders. They were brief, choked with laughter and innocent enough . . . but, apparently, from the center of a pending conversation, because they didn't make much _sense_.

"I'm not as sure as you that he'd murder one of us out of spite. He's been pretty reasonable before," the first voice said, in a tone that sounded dangerous, but not _that _tough. Similar to the way Stan's attacker had sounded, when he had violently threatened to twist off his head. Smooth, and mildly bitchy. "I don't know what all the hype is all about. Probably just a bunch of idiots who have their minds set on being killed."

Unintentionally, Stan had paused to listen. When he noticed this, he continued wading through the water with his jeans ballooning out like unfurled umbrellas, shuffling his feet along so as not to cause a splash. He trained his ear on the voices. Through the gentle rush of the water and his own heavy, nervous breathing, hearing them would still be a feat.

"But he killed Dupree. Without even stopping to think about it. Just _did _it. Threw a dagger through his heart," said a second voice. This one deeper, gruffer.

_Okay, so at least two, _Stan thought, still shuffling carefully forward. _At least two assholes that I have to deal with. _He looked forward and noticed that the passage-- which was actually the caved entrance of a staircase, he realized, now that he was a little closer-- was about half the distance it had been before. The thumping of his heart downgraded a speed, and what was left of the post-projection nausea weakened to a dull roar.

"I heard from somebody that it was a mercy kill. That one of the Inheritors messed him up real bad," Said a third voice. This one was, unexpectedly, female . . . But not any less dangerous sounding. _Her _voice actually sent more chills than the other two, and not only because it confirmed that there was a third party involved in this group of gaining voices. It had an icy tinge to it. Something _cold. _"He wasn't going to live anyway. They said the way his face looked, he probably had maybe an hour left. And he was suffering."

Stan made it to the passage, but did not go inside yet. Once he was inside, hearing the voices would be damned near impossible . . . And he wanted to pick up everything he could, from this conversation. Though he had no idea what they were talking about, they were obviously up to no good, and what the woman had said struck a familiar cord in his heart. Not a cord of certainty, but almost destined to become that if he let it wind on long enough.

_What the hell are they _talking _about? _He thought, taking a light hold on the lip of the passage. He held his breath deep down in his chest, to concentrate on hearing the next vital words.

"The Inheritors? I thought that was just a rumor," said the first speaker. Mr. Bitchy.

"No it isn't. Didn't you hear? At first we weren't sure it was really them, but after Friday night there's no doubt," The second speaker, this time, with a slightly sarcastic twist.

"Friday night? What happened Friday night?" There was a short pause, followed by the audible sound of a light, dry slap. The noise echoed and wafted in the tunnel, bringing it back to Stan with astounding clarity. He had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle a chuckle, despite-- or perhaps _because of--_the pressure of his current situation. There had been a slap, there. Maybe not a serious one, but _definitely _a slap.

"Moron! Don't you remember?" The second voice spat, his tone not entirely vicious. More the way Cartman often spoke when his mind ran away with an idea that nobody else could see the _eureka _of. "Nigel! That little bastard exploded his head! The Inheritor! The fucking fire-crotch!"

Stan's breath caught in his throat. Immediately, he understood the queer cord that had been struck inside of him. That cord of _familiarity. _They were talking about _them. _These 'Inheritors' were he and Kyle; it was all too obvious, with the hints that had been given. The one they called 'Dupree' getting injured by one of the 'inheritors' to the point of a long, torturous death. 'Dupree' must have been the thing he'd slammed into the wall repeatedly, until it had eventually vanished with a blown pupil and clotted, dribbling brains. And when they spoke of this 'Nigel' being killed by this 'fire-crotch' . . .

_Nigel's that thing that was going to twist my head off. The thing Kyle killed, to save me. That must mean the fire-crotch . . . The fire-crotch is . . ._

Stan thought immediately of Kyle's flame red hair, and had to fight to suppress a gale of laughter. _Oh, boy. I can't let Cartman hear that one. Kyle will never live it down._

The woman's voice spoke up. It suddenly seemed much louder, much _closer . . . _about a minute away from traveling the curve that would announce Stan into their plain view. He flinched, a bit, and prepared to duck inside the shadowy depths of the stairwell . . . But did not do it completely, yet. _Let them get a little closer. Now I know I'm in the right place, but they might have something else to spill. Like what the hell they want with Kenny._

"See? Slicer didn't kill him out of spite. He didn't realize quite how strong the Inheritors would be," The woman said casually, much of the venom and unpleasant ice drained from her voice. It was now so close that it sounded perfectly clear, save for the slightest echo waves that fuzzed the edges. "He didn't think the exploder would be able to land a hit, and he didn't think the mover would be _brave _enough to pursue a kill. They're only _children. _I don't think any of us expected them, much less only _two, _to do any real damage. We all figured they'd turn tail and run, especially when they saw what had been done to the rubber ball."

Stan thought on this, a second. It didn't take much of this errant pondering to come up with an answer to the question-- who else would they be talking about? _Butters, _of course. The guy who could reflect anything back.

He began to see the tips of long shadows, making their way along the curve. Had he been in his right mind, this would have been his cue to duck down and hide; but he was _not_ in his right mind. He was in a _curious _state of mind; the sort of thing that, no matter how hard common sense tried to trump it, would always stand tall and proud. Maybe when he saw the first _shape, _he'd consider ducking down. But not now.

Not while there was still more listening to do.

"So what are we going to do now?" Asked the gruff voice, sounding the tiniest bit exasperated. The hint of anger he'd showed before--_the fucking fire-crotch!-- _was stifled, but mildly present. "Nigel and Dupree are dead, now. Two of our best members. Gone. Just like that." The first speaker-- he of the oh-so-bitchy voice-- made an angry grunt in his throat. It sounded vaguely animalistic, but that didn't really surprise Stan. They'd _have _to be animals, to be able to think this way. To be able to _do _the things their dearly departed friends could do.

"I know what I would _like _to do," Bitchy sneered, his voice sounding tinny as if coming from a great, long nose. "I would _like _to find the little bastard that scrambled Dupree's brains, and give him a taste of his own damned medicine."

"The mover?" Gruff voice asked.

"Yes. The damned mover."

Stan felt a strange mixture flicker at his heart. On the one hand there was terror, understandably . . . Because knowing somebody wanted you dead didn't exactly rest easy on the soul. There was sort of some weight, there. But on the other hand, perhaps overshadowing some of this terror and absolute dread, was an undefeatable inflation of his ego. He had caused them pain. They had hurt Butters, they had hurt Kyle . . . And he had caused them pain. He'd paid them back.

_But not enough, yet. Not just enough._

Stan saw the first little sprays of water leap into his vision, indicating the trio of assholes' close proximity to his position. Recognizing that now was the time to act, he used the lip of the passage as leverage to yank himself quickly inside.

However, perhaps fatally, he did not see the elevated threshold beneath his feet.

Before he could curse or even scream, he was down. Down with a horrific _splash _and the unfortunate _rip_ of his jeans, a sound so loud that it seemed to cut the very air in two. His shins bashed smartly onto the elevated threshold--meant to keep water out, he quickly gathered--and his elbows connected with hard concrete on the other side. He _just _stopped his face from hitting the ground. Had he not, his lips would've been two split, bloody sausages.

_Oh, shit! _He thought spastically, his eyes widening to the sizes of dinner plates. His whole body throbbed, especially his shins, which were probably cut and bleeding. _Oh, shit, what if they heard--_

"What was that?" Bitchy asked, from a distance that seemed way too close. Stan heard them stop in their progress, but guessed this pause wouldn't last long. Maybe one confused, blundering second. "You guys heard that, right? What was it?"

_Damn, damn, damn . . . _Stan thought, biting his lip. Not daring to move one inch, lest he give more of himself away. _Go away, turn the other way, GET AWAY FROM ME . . ._

"Yeah. I heard it," The woman said in an ominous, suspicious tone. The pause lasted a second later and then, just as Stan suspected, the footsteps started again. This time, only one pair, probably the woman . . . But in his direction. "It came from this way. Around the corner."

The other two sets of footsteps started in. Panic blinded Stan, and before he could stop himself he was gaining his feet, flopping up in the water like a beached fish. His ravaged shins stung as he lifted them from the water, the air touching them for the first time. He had a faint feeling in his stomach as if someone had punched him in the gut, probably due to how he'd landed. Right _on _it, straddling the threshold.

"Damn it!" He swore, looking down at the torn-out knees of his jeans.

He was prepared to jump into the layer of shadow, hurting shins or not, when the first of his pursuers spotted him. He would never have known this if said pursuer hadn't _screamed, _thus alerting him of his suddenly dire situation.

"_Look! Over there!" _He heard the woman scream, her icy voice suddenly shrill and loud. He heard the splashes of her footsteps gaining behind him, the sound of her breathing . . . And the sounds of the other two voices, coming close at hand. Coming _right_ _behind_ _her_. _"__It's the mover! Get him!"_

Stan didn't waste the time to get a good look at his pursuers. Instead, at the sound of that word, at _mover, _his legs started moving on their own accord.

_Oh, shit. No way out here but the stairs, _He thought, looking up them with a frantic toss of his head. _I can't make it. My legs are too short, they'll--_

"_GET HIM!" _He heard again. Suddenly those splashing feet were right behind him, at the lip of his very passage, and he had to get moving. _Had _to, else this would end up just the way it had on Friday night . . . Except there was no Kyle here to save him now, was there? No Kyle to blow up their heads, and save him from their evil grip?

_There may not be a Kyle to blow up their heads, _He thought, looking fiercely out the open end of the passage. The way he had come in from, the land of the shallow water . . . But possibly his only choice. _But I have some of my own tricks up my sleeve._

Thinking this, he barreled out of the passage and back into the hallway. Two hands swiped at him and grazed his sides, sharp hands with long nails and rings that glittered in the lamp light, but he didn't take the time to calculate this near miss. He swung his arm behind him. There was a sharp scream as the woman went flying backwards, hopefully into her comrades. He didn't know. All he knew was the shallow water, the yellow light reflecting sickly off its surface . . . And the white splashes that came up around his ankles as he fled, drenching his shredded jeans and favorite shirt.

_My burial suit, _He thought randomly. Wherever the thought had come from, he didn't know . . . Only that it sounded _right, _and ominously appropriate.

"_Go after him!" _The woman screamed, probably from the floor. Her voice was shrill, shrill enough to make Stan think that maybe he should try to throw her again, just to knock the breath out of her . . . But he didn't think he had the time. _Or _the energy. _If I can vomit in this state, who says I can't have asthma attacks? _

"Don't just stand there watching him run! _Get him!"_

The splashes of heavy feet, at _least _two pairs, sounded behind him. The footfalls of long legs. The footfalls of people that could easily snatch up any kid, any kid like _him, _super-cool powers or not, and break them deftly in half. Listening to them, he knew he didn't have much time. Unless he turned around and started flinging people to the moon, he was dead meat in less than a minute.

_But that involves turning around, _He thought, running even faster, feeling his thighs beginning to ache. Feeling his lungs, which were blissfully a bit stronger due to a prescription steroid prescribed to him in the hospital, burn as if lined with hot embers. _And if I turn around, that makes me even slower. If I turn around--_

Splashes that he _knew_ couldn't have come from his own feet hit his back. He jumped, startled . . . And screamed when he felt a hand brush his back, just beneath the collar of his shirt. One of them was trying to grab him. One of them was actually trying to snag his collar, the way a mother cat picks up her kitten, and lift him off his feet. He couldn't have that. Astral or not, he could still feel pain, and Kenny wasn't getting rescued any quicker.

_So I have to do something about this, _He thought, pumping his legs even faster. Not willing to stop even as his mind processed the imminent possibility, because the thought just seemed too _horrifying. I can't just keep running, that won't do anything but tire me out, and they're faster. Sooner or later, his hand _is _going to grab me and there'll be nothing I can do about it._

As if to taunt this thought, the hand came back into existence.This time not just as a brush on his upper back, but as a snagging hook that caught him roughly by the collar of his shirt. He tried to scream, but couldn't-- in his shock, all that came out was a choked, pained squeak.

_No! _He thought, his heart sundering against his sides. So hard that he could _feel _his ribcage vibrating, all the way up into his skull. _No, not again! I can't let one of these assholes grab me _again!

So thinking this, he immediately began to struggle. Not the frail, small struggles of one who believes he is done for, but the thick, powerful things that had been responsible for Kyle's wrists on Friday night. With his shirt digging into the front of his throat, it was a little hard to catch air . . . But he ignored this. Because, as appealing as the path seemed, his goal was not to get away. It was to be able to turn around enough to stare this fucker straight in the eye, and then fire him into whatever was in the way.

_The other two, _He thought, fiercely wrenching on his shirt, trying like _hell _to turn around. The grabber had apparently picked up on this, because he was doing everything humanly possible to keep him from doing it. _I'll fire his ass into the other two, and kill them all three. And I'll do it _exactly _like I did it to their friend._

The prospect looked very bright on first inspection. However, when Stan felt a peculiar tugging at his throat and noticed that his feet were being _pulled off the ground, _just like that mother cat with her wayward kittens, every possibility of using his power to escape went dead. It was suddenly all about survival, now. All about getting free of this hand and thumping to the shallow water below, where he just _might _get lucky and hit his head hard enough to rejoin his original body.

He kicked his legs. Thrashed his arms. None of it did any good. He felt himself being raised farther and farther off the ground until he was hanging in a cloud of rot-smelling halitosis, no doubt being held up next to the face of the one he called Bitchy. Who else could it be? Who _else _would have a nose so long he could see it from his peripheral vision? As if to answer his question, the man holding him let loose a quiet, throaty chuckle. It let go a burst of foul smell that made Stan want to gag, but confirmed what he already knew just the same . . . Even the _laugh _sounded whiny.

"Well, well, well. You sure can run fast, can't you, little rabbit?" Bitchy sneered, his voice so smooth and low that it ran pleasantly down Stan's spine like a caressing hand. He had a moment to briefly wonder if, as he could move things with his mind, this man had the uncanny ability to calm down even the most rowdy of subjects . . . But that sort of matter was beyond caring, now. Getting away from the assholes _stench cloud _was what mattered. "You almost got away, didn't you? But not quite."

Stan reached above him and bunted at the hand grasping his shirt, but it was as strong as steel. There was no budging that thing, except for maybe telekinesis . . . But that didn't seem to be working now, did it? While he was in such a compromising position?

"Let go of me, asshole! Let me down!"

Another chuckle. This one was smooth and pleasant just as the first one had been, but with a bit of an amused edge to it . . . And maybe just a little bit of _meanness_.

"_Oooh_. Fiery little thing, aren't you?" Bitchy sneered. Stan felt the hand holding him by the collar tighten its grip, and let go a helpless hiss of pain as the long fingers bit into his shoulder blades.

Another one of the legendary Trio of Assholes appeared in his peripheral vision, hanging back a considerable distance. Judging by the fact that he was male, Stan could guess that it was Gruff voice . . . But he sure didn't _look _like the owner of it. He looked more like the owner of . . . Well, Bitchy's voice. Minus the weasel nose.

"You might as well snap his neck while you have the chance," McGruff said. Stan couldn't see his face completely-- _damn the luck-- _but he could tell he shot him a look of deepest, malignant hatred. It was something in the way his features cramped. "He broke Jacqueline's arm. Little bastard. If you don't do it now, _I'll _take the honors."

_Good. So they don't know I'm astral, _Stan thought, still struggling with the hand at his collar. _They don't know, and they probably won't find out, but . . . How much longer of this? How much longer until I finally go back? _"Snap his neck? Now, why would I do that?" Bitchy asked, raising Stan just a little higher. He did this enough that Stan had time to hope beyond hope that he'd turn him, turn him just enough to where he could shoot him in the neck with a blast of wrenching telekinesis . . . But he never did. As he'd indicated earlier, he had knowledge of the 'mover's' abilities, and probably wasn't stupid enough to let Stan give him an example. Not as stupid as the woman had been, anyway.

"Why would I kill him now, when there are others who are _dying _to see the little treasure we just dug up?"

_They won't see me long, 'cuz I'll be out of here, soon, _Stan thought through the painful misery that consumed his soul. It was a nice thought, perhaps even plausible . . . But wishful thinking. He'd only been projected about thirty minutes, and when was the longest he'd ever been? _Three hours. I could possibly have two-and-a-half more hours left. _

McGruff scoffed, rolled his eyes. _Good thing it's not _him _who caught me, _Stan thought, trying to do the Kyle thing and insert some optimism into the situation.

"Whatever, you moron. Just come here. Bring the brat, but hold his hands," McGruff said, beginning to walk away. After a second he stopped again, turned, and added, "Oh, yeah. And cover his eyes, too. Boss says when he's scared, they can do some heavy damage. And he looks pretty terrified to me."

Stan frowned at McGruff's back as he walked away. He would have taken the time to shout something nasty back, maybe even something that would have gotten him _killed, _just so he could return to his body and end this little spell of madness . . . But before he could, Bitchy was manhandling him once again. He let out a startled squeak as he was pulled roughly back against his captor's chest, hitting something that felt more like obdurate stone.

_Maybe this is my chance, _He thought, his eyes bulging slightly as Bitchy's opposite arm locked tightly-- a little _too _tightly-- around his midriff. _Maybe I can worm around and--_

Before he could finish the thought, Bitchy's arm looped around his eyes and blocked off his vision. This was an outrage enough as it was, but what pissed him off more was the fact that the arm was long enough to grab his wrists and pin them, as well. Were things a little familiar? Stan definitely thought so. A familiar going back to maybe _Friday_ _night_.

"Let go of me!" He ordered fruitlessly again, his heart spiking with the first true markers of panic. He'd had his arms pinned before, but _never _both outlets of his strange power. It felt as drastic as suddenly losing one's hearing. In a sudden moment of inspiration, he shouted, "My friends will be here soon, and if you're afraid of what _I _can do, just wait until you meet Kyle! He can kill you before you can even--"

One of the man's knees raised at a dangerous, painful speed, bumping Stan's thigh and just _barely _missing the sensitive cluster that rested between his legs. Stan took this as the perfect time to shut up, because no matter _how _much it sucked to have to live through this inconvenience, being racked seemed somehow worse.

"Hush, you. Your words do no good anymore," Bitchy snapped, the vibrations of his voice humming against Stan's back. He could feel that they were walking, now, and also hear the sloshing of the water. It seemed oddly hypnotic, counting the direness of the situation. Had he not been in so uncomfortable a position Stan thought he might have fallen asleep.

"Save your words for your chief audience. I'm sure he'd _love _to hear them."

_Oh, I'm sure he would, _Stan thought grimly, relaxing in the grip of the man who was carrying him off. If he thought it would do him any good, he might have told the man he was in astral body just to spite him . . . But that would only piss him off more, and then _good-bye, _balls.

While plunged in this unfortunate, but, thankfully, _destined to end _blackness, he thought of Wendy. Thought of what she'd think if she knew what he was doing, now, after just recovering from so serious an asthma attack. Would she gripe at him? He thought she would.

_Forget what anyone _else _would say. What about Kyle? I'll bet he's standing on his head right now._

Stan felt his heart drop into his stomach, at that. He had to stop thinking about it, then, because if he continued, tears would surely spring to his eyes and alert this asshole that he was crying. That seemed worst of all. To let him know that he was frightened.

_But of course I know what Kyle's doing. Of course I know he's sitting _right there, _making sure everything stays okay._

He had no way of knowing whether this was true or not. But as he was carried off into the passage, in the arms of a man who'd killed more people than the amount of years Stan had been alive, he felt a sure and bittersweet certainty.

**************************************************************

"Cartman! Cartman, come here!"

Kyle looked up long enough to see him sitting on the floor, a look of boredom in the highest degree coating his eyes. He took the time to wave him over-- like that would do any good; if the fatass wanted to come, he _would_--and then promptly laid his ear flat against Stan's chest again, over the faint _thump _of the heartbeat. His two fingers still remained on the inside of his best friend's wrist, but that wasn't his main interest, anymore.

Cartman let out a heavy sigh that could have been irritation, exasperation or plain exhaustion. There was the soft brushing of his shoes against the carpet and then he was pulling himself up on the bed, forcing Kyle to listen to his best friend's heart through the painful groans of the bed frame.

When he was finally up, his heavy form created a sinkhole in the mattress. Kyle had to brace himself on the windowsill to keep from toppling over.

"What is it? I was having the best nap of my life," Cartman commented through a yawn.

Uncharacteristically, Kyle didn't even bat an eye at the blunt rudeness. He pressed his ear ever harder against Stan's chest, making sure that what he thought he heard was real. And, _yes, _it was. Where Stan's heart had been faint and indiscernible before, it was now loud and almost _thundering _in sound.

"His heart! It . . . It sped up, or something!" He exclaimed, bringing his ear up from Stan's chest. Holding his fingers even tighter against the pale wrist, feeling the downwind effects radiating there. It _definitely_ had. And, pleasingly, some of the color seemed to have come back to his cheeks, as well.

_Good. Maybe he's coming back to us, _He thought, not bothering to fight back a tiny smile.

Cartman scooted up and leaned over Stan, giving him a quick up-and-down survey. Apparently he didn't see anything of interest, because he gave a small grunt and promptly threw himself back in his former position.

"Yeah. So? What's new?" He asked, through yet another yawn. At least he _covered _this one.

"It wasn't like that before! I could barely hear it!"

"Well, maybe he's coming back, or something. Damn, dude. Don't cream your pants, or anything." Kyle shot him a frown, but it didn't dash his happiness away. _Nothing _could do that. _Nothing _except for what seemed to be happening right now, as he felt a pulse that thrummed as vibrantly as any other. It seemed the dead was being revived, now. Sleeping Beauty was awakening from her slumber, true love's kiss or not, and it was all happening in a satisfying amount of time. Not in the _hours _he'd expected before.

_Phew, _he thought, wiping physical beads of sweat from his brow. _Everything's going to be okay, now. I can stop worrying._

Had he only known the true reason behind his best friend's suddenly raging heart, _worrying _would be only the simplest way to describe the things he would have felt.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Wow! I've done it! Updated in a timely fashion, during the first week of classes! I just couldn't help myself-- I _loved _this chapter! I had so much fun writing it, especially -- I laughed out loud every time his name was mentioned. Though it does appear something queer is happening, because Stan seems to be taking over the fic for the moment . . . But don't worry. Kyle will redeem himself. Was that a spoiler? Methinks so. J

Okay, so what happens next? Well, Stan will be meeting someone, of course. We all know him by the name of _Slicer, _but of course you'd probably already guessed that . . . And he has some things he needs to tell Stan. Some things that will clear _many _things up. Golly. Aren't we all glad that Stan's real body is safe at home, under the protection of the oh-so-caring Kyle? I know _I'm _glad.

Will we see Kenny? Well, I won't tell you that part. It's a surprise. J

And so I leave you now in this cruel cliffhanger, looking forward to rattling out the next chapter. And you can guarantee it won't be long-- this thing is really getting good!

Thanks for sticking by me and my crazy story!

-Aub


	8. Audience

Hey there, readers! It's been a tough first week at school, and I've just learned more about astronomy than I ever wanted to. The concept of the universe-- the fact that it's just so _huge_-- has always been a very hard concept for me to grasp. I mean, out of all that space, how can we say we're the only ones? How can we say there's not other people like us living it up on other planets?

I'd like to say that some of these great spiritual epiphanies have come out in my writing, but to tell you the truth, I'm getting pretty stumped, here. Not in regards to where the story will go, mind you-- I'd start getting scared if it were _that-- _but just several little questions that I have left open for the beauty of your suspense, and now must have to answer. I think everything's pretty well mapped out in my head, now. Everything in regards to the important details and the end, anyways. Now I just have to worry about a few little things--- things which I'm sure most of you want to kill me for not answering before. Don't worry. We'll make our way back to miss Wendy in due time.

So, last chapter was pretty much about Stan astral projecting, and finding himself in the headquarters of the bad men that keep attacking our boys. This part has great purpose, and though most of you might wonder what that purpose _is, _I'm sure you'll see it in this chapter. The situation, with Slicer, especially . . . Just answers so _much. _You can't just throw open ends out there and hope the readers will understand, because even though it may make sense to the storyteller, you have to remember that's just what you're doing . . . _telling a story. _Just as the very first scene with Slicer was meant to explain, this one is, as well. Except this time, we get to hear it through Stan. But don't worry. There's other things in there, too.

And I'm going to take the time to tell you, right here, _astoundingly, _that I do not use this sort of language in every day life. Just thought you all should know that.

Be prepared for some emotional roller coasters, here. Maybe a little corniness, too, I don't know. But there are rarely bearable stories without a little of these factors, and so for that matter, I hope you'll forgive me.

-Aub

_____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 8: Audience

Slicer heard the Inheritor being carried down the hall just as he was preparing to go and 'visit' with the other one. The little orange-coated brat, weak precog or not, was putting up quite some fight when it came to revealing his premonitions . . . But of course, it was dumb to have expected otherwise. Despite being mere children, these kids shared a bond together that had been incomprehensible to think of before. Expecting them to dissolve that bond in the face of fear was a nice fantasy, for sure, but not likely to happen. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure _that_ one out. Especially after Friday night when the mover, the exploder and the precog himself had all compromised themselves to save the rubber ball's life, without a spare thought in the opposite direction. It was touching, when you really thought of it. Touching, maybe even _epic. _The sort of thing that could be portrayed in a Hollywood movie and bring tears to the audiences' eyes.

However, no matter how touching or completely unbelievable, Slicer couldn't help but think that things just might have begun to crumble from beneath him. Not because the Inheritors had inflicted a dramatic loss, because they really _hadn't; _or, at least, not _yet. _Losing three out of about thirty was really no big deal. Sure, they were three of his _strongest . . . _but there were others just as strong. Others just as _big. _Others that could move fast enough to avoid the little fire-crotch's explosions, and were deft enough to be pounding the mover's face before he could bother to swing his arm. A couple of his guys were preparing to dispatch the newly discovered Healer as he thought these very thoughts. So it really didn't matter. Everything was totally under control. _A-O.K._

But if that was so, why did he feel so _unsure?_

_I'm going to have to get that little bastard to talk, if I really want to know, _He thought angrily, slamming an open palm atop the table as he rose. The glass ash tray wobbled and rotated on its round base, spilling ashes over a collection of five familiar pictures. That of the precog was resting on top. It was spotted with several cigarette burn holes that were _not _accidental. _He's not going to unless I force him, but I _have _to get him to tell me what he sees. I have to get him to tell me if the exploder will learn to control his powers or not, because if I don't, and we go into this blind--_

There was a noise from down the long hallway. Slicer jerked up from his position, startled by something for what felt like the first time in his life, and was vaguely annoyed to discover they were footsteps. Coming lightly down the passage, their sound echoing in the hallway and wafting flawlessly into his little room. Footsteps that could, realistically, mean only one thing.

That he was being disturbed.

He felt a slow sickle of a smile make its way across his yellowed, nicotine-stained face. He raised the cigar in his fingers and took two long, satisfying inhales, allowing the sweet poison to billow inside his lungs. This couldn't have worked out any better. He was angry with the precog, angry enough to storm into that little room and _kill _him, no matter _what_ that might spell out for his meaning and mission . . . Because, no matter _how _much he needed the kid's abilities, the blatant disrespect was a bit too much. He'd thought he could handle it when the kid called him a bastard. It might take a few dozen cigars, but he thought he could handle it when the kid called him a pathetic fuck, as well.

What he _couldn't _handle was what had happened this morning. When the kid had looked him straight in the eyes from the depths of that traffic-cone-orange hood, his gaze as fierce and fearless as ever, and told him he was going to _lose._

Slicer had thought he was going to kill the boy right then. As it had turned out, he'd barely restrained himself . . . But only by throwing himself from the room dramatically like a damsel in histrionic distress. It seemed enough to make him _explode. _Who _ever _talked to him like that? Who _ever, _when they knew such a tongue would result in a bloody stump?

_Of course, _He had thought, lighting a cigar so frantically that he'd burned his own fingertips. It seemed like it took forever to light the thing; so much so that he actually considered _eating _the tobacco instead of smoking it. _Of course. The only one who _knows _I can't kill him. The only one who knows I need his powers more than his blood._

He'd spent the next thirty minutes shivering with rage in his chair, rolling the cigar absently between his fingers, watching the ashes plummet from the tip like blackened snow. The rage he'd felt was immeasurable, _inconsolable . . . _but he'd managed to keep it at bay. Just _barely, _and in a childish way, by repeatedly trashing the precog's photograph with the tip of his cigar.

Now that he heard these footsteps advancing toward him down the hallway, he realized the outlet to his rage had a chance of becoming more _realistic. _At least his members would scream when they died. And at least he could watch their agonized grimaces as they burned, and pretend that the face he saw melting before him belonged to the precog.

When he heard the next sound, the sound that was not a footstep, he was startled to feel a sudden tinge of optimism inject itself into his spirit. The sound was unexpected, and almost unrecognizable to a man who didn't spend much time around children . . . But unmistakable just the same.

First, he heard Connell. _That _sound was familiar, and annoying as ever.

"Liven up, you pestilent little fuck! Don't make me do it for you! You'll find your tiny balls in the back of your throat!"

A small grunt echoed from the winding trail of the passageway. Then, as if floating to him on a thread that descended from heaven itself, Slicer was introduced to the squeaky, high-pitched voice of a prepubescent child.

"_Oww, _you son of a bitch! Knock it off!"

He felt his whole demeanor instantly brighten. He was suddenly able to take the cigar-- which he had been drawing upon as if it were some sort of oxygen tank for the deprived-- away from his lips and tap the ashes into the tray, unabashed by the spare few that fluttered onto his collection of photographs. He had never believed in such things as karma, but if he had, he thought this would have been a prime example. One of the Inheritors? Stupid enough to wander into his reach?

_Let's just pray it's the exploder, _He thought, rolling the cigar absently between his fingers. _Let's just _pray _it's him, so I can take his murdering little head and _twist _it off, _right _in front of the precog._

The struggling sounds continued, advancing closer and closer toward the open door of the room. He thought to run out and meet Connell, just so he could grab the boy _himself _and wrestle him inside the place that would likely bring his death . . . But chose not to end the little brat's anticipation. Why should he? The kid _had _to know what was coming. What made that fate worse than drawing it out longer?

_It won't be drawn out _much_ longer once I see his face, _He thought, flouncing down in his chair. There was the familiar sound of creaking wood, the hickory, age-old taste of tobacco as he moved the cigar back to his lips . . . And then the welcome weight of silence. Here he would stay. Here he would _wait, _until Connell and the others brought the boy to him. And it wouldn't be long. They were close to the door, now, maybe a yard down the hall. He could already hear the kid's jean legs whisper past each other as he struggled. His heavy, frightened breathing.

_Say sayonara to your little friend, precog. Maybe _he'll _give you some inspiration._

Their entrance was announced by a _thump _as one of the kid's thrashing feet hit the doorway. After this came that high-pitched voice again, the words slightly raised with edges of fear.

"Put me down, asshole! This is your last warning!"

Slicer's head snapped up to regard him. And when his eyes fell on the little Inheritor, beaten and slightly bloody but mostly unharmed, he couldn't stop the frantic skip of excitement his heart danced inside his chest.

It was _not _the exploder. He supposed on some level of his mind there was a bit of disappointment at this, but it was deeply buried and barely more than a hint. Because, even though it _wasn't_ the little murderer, seeing this one captured did wonders for his halfway-shattered confidence. Hell, more than just _wonders. _It did _outcries._

It meant both of two things.

One, the Inheritors were about to lose their strongest member. Not to mention, their _leader._

And, two, the Healer was out her major protector. There was a slight chance the others might be able to help her, but word of mouth was the mover hadn't _told _the others. He had tried to keep the secret as much under wraps as possible, all in the aim of trying to keep her out of reach.

_Ha. _A lot of good it would do him now_._

Slicer rose from his chair. Connell had thrown an arm across the boy's eyes, so it wasn't surprising when he didn't see Slicer loom up in front of his vision. What was surprising was the fact that he didn't _hear. _The old wood of the chair screamed like a dying woman, and the boy still struggled on and on as if nothing had changed.

Slicer couldn't help smiling. He moved the cigar back up to his lips, jutting it crudely into the corner of his mouth.

"We caught him underground, sir. Just standing there as if he belonged," Connell said, his voiced slightly strained from keeping up with the boy's struggles. It impressed Slicer to see that the kid had managed to bring blood to his assistant in some places, mainly to his lips and nose. So he was _that _kind of a fighter, was he? It almost made him sorry for what he was going to do.

When Slicer didn't speak, Connell continued, "He broke Jacqueline's arm. The bones. They popped right out of the--" He grunted as the kid head-butted him in the chest, knocking the breath from him. After this, he stopped speaking. Slicer didn't think he was any longer _capable _of speaking.

He looked up and darted his eyes briefly to Jacqueline. And yes, her arm _was _broken-- and _badly, _too. An eggshell-white splinter of bone had popped wetly from her forearm, and glistened almost hypnotically in the dim, fading light. By the simple way she _stood _he could tell it was excruciatingly painful, and the hand she had clasped over it in order to hold in the blood was so ineffectual it seemed almost a joke.

He turned back toward Connell and the child. If she was dumb enough to get in the mover's way, by God, she _deserved _an arm that looked like a piece of tenderized meat.

"Were any of the others with him? Did they get away?" He asked, moving back slightly as the kid's thrashing feet grew close enough to lightly pummel at his chest.

"Not that we saw, sir. And when we caught him, he said his friends would _soon _be here, meaning--"

"Meaning that he was alone. Of course."

Slicer took a puff of his cigar and moved his eyes down to the mover. The mover that was also a _projector, _as a matter of fact, and probably more likely to _use _that ability instead of go wandering into dangerous places alone. How would he be able to tell where the headquarters were, anyway? Without _some _sort of magic, finding them was hard enough to be considered impossible.

_Of _course_, you sneaky little brat. Of _course _you did, _He thought, suddenly wanting to strangle the boy more than ever. Just for getting his hopes up and then letting them fall, if for nothing else.

After a moment of quiet thinking, Connell asked shakily, "Sir?"

He snapped from his reverie, suddenly annoyed. "Yes?"

"What do you want us to do with him? Not to complain or anything, but he's just a little--" Before he could finish the sentence, the boy had shot his head up and clocked him in the underside of the chin with it. Slicer couldn't help it. He started laughing. It was something in the noise Connell's jaw had made-- dry and sharp, like a breaking bone.

"Oh, yes. About the boy," He said, still laughing through the sensitive look of hurt that crossed Connell's face. "Put him down, would you? I've had enough of hearing him bitch."

Connell's eyes widened. The look of hurt was instantly replaced by one of raw disbelief.

"Put. . . Him . . . Down? But sir, he--"

"Yes, yes, I know. He packs quite a punch, doesn't he? That's why I'd run if I were you. That's why I'd put him down, and then run for my life."

There was a static silence. It passed over everyone in the room, from assistant to assistant to struggling child himself-- because even _he _must have heard it. Even through such powerful, relentless struggles. And, perhaps luckily for the boy, that had been the vital thing that was even giving him a _chance _in Slicer's eyes. The fact that he had the _gall _to keep fighting, even when he must have known all bets were off. Astral or not, it was a_ child. _Death was likely not something the boy wanted to experience, even if it _did _result in the return to his original body.

Just as the silence dragged on a little too much for Slicer's liking, Connell began bending down to do as he was told. He kept a firm hold on the child's wrists and eyes, however, probably not chancing the let-go until he was _go _to run. Jacqueline and Roger were already disappearing out the door. What _smart, smart _assistants they were.

"Okay . . . Sir. Just as you'd like," Connell said shakily, setting the boy's feet on the ground.

As soon as they touched, there was a definite change in the boy's posture. Something more rigid. Something more _stiff. _And when Connell began to back away from him, slowly releasing his wrists and eyes like a victim being stalked by an angry tiger . . .

That's when the boy struck. And it was so fast, so unbelievably _fast, _that Slicer didn't have the chance to even draw in a breath.

"Up yours, buttwipe!" The boy screamed, turning his head toward the cowardly, retreating Connell. He gave the slightest squint of his eyes and Slicer saw his assistant go _flying, _his legs and arms spread-eagled in the air like a cheerleader after a bad toss. He had time to think only _one _thing, to think _oh my God that's going to hurt, that's _definitely _going to hurt . . . _and then Connell was out the doorway.

There was the _splat _of landing, the dry _crack _of freshly breaking bones. A small, gurgled moan, broken up by water and perhaps the smallest amount of blood.

And then silence. _Dead _silence.

The mover didn't waste any time. It wasn't two seconds from the moment they heard Connell's final splat until the boy's dangerous eyes were blazing on Slicer himself, burning with an intensity that made his skin sizzle.

Slicer held up his hands. But this was not a surrender . .. _hell, _no. This was a _warning._

"Now, kiddo, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he advised, speaking calmly out the side of his mouth. Through the smoking, sweet-tasting cigar, feeling like he'd never needed a drag so badly in his life.

The kid wasn't listening. He took a step forward, his blue eyes shining like beacons.

"Fuck you," He snarled, in a voice that sounded more like a demon.

Slicer took a step backwards, still holding up his hands. His foot caught the table as he backed and the ash tray went to the floor, shattering in a pretty burst of twinkling, multi-colored glass. _I'll kill the little fucker for that, _He thought, still humoring him. Still holding his hands to his shoulders, too afraid to admit that he was a _little _scared of what had just happened. A kid that small? Doing something like _that? _

_Make no mistake, when his little sweetheart is murdered this will _all _be worth it. Every single bit._

He smiled. The boy's agitation seemed to grow ever stronger at it, his rage coming off him sharp and treacherous like spikes. A part of Slicer tried to tell him that he should be careful. But then a _bigger _part, a part that was probably _right, _said this boy held virtually no more danger for him than the precog did.

But how would he ever know until he tried?

He gestured towards the chair that marked the opposite side of the card table. The boy acted like he wanted to turn his vision that way, but seemed to reconsider and hold his gaze only on Slicer. Smart kid. _Powerful _kid, too, judging by the force coming from his eyes.

Slicer felt his smile grow.

"Come on, now. Just sit down. Let's talk."

The boy's eyes flashed again. Following this was a brief, sinister smirk, the sort of thing one didn't expect to see on the face of a child. It actually sent a chill down Slicer's spine. An icy, cold-as-metal chill.

"Talking's done," The boy replied simply, moving a little closer. That insane glint in his eyes seemed to be diminishing, now, but he always had his hands. Always, _always _had the hands.

Slicer let out a breath through clenched teeth. _Damn, _did stubbornness suck.

"All right," He sighed, putting his hands down from his shoulders. He took a drag from the cigarette, one of the long, lung-burning drags that always brought water to his eyes. He was going to need it, if things continued on in _this _fashion. "All right, fine. Go ahead. Do your worst, kiddo. But don't say I didn't warn you." The boy's smirk widened. He wasted no time to question Slicer's odd, practically tell-all statement of before; only did exactly as he'd been building up to do for the last thirty seconds. He squinted his eyes. Following this was a prick of hot, forceful power, something so strong that Slicer felt it slide over his skin like a glove.

And then there was the _push. _Right in the center of his chest it fell, like a rude blast from an air-zooka. Enough to knock the breath out of him for sure, and enough to send him stumbling back on his feet like a drunk square-dancer in a honky-tonk tavern . . . But nothing more.

He caught himself on his chair before hitting the wall. Ignoring the look that cast over the boy's eyes-- a look that completely defeated the smug one of before; a look that artfully combined the emotions of surprise, fear, and just a taste of reproach-- he put a hand to his chest, feeling of the impact zone. It hummed and buzzed, obviously affected by _some _sort of great power . . . But _nothing _like Connell had probably felt it. Nothing like any of his other members, either, for sure.

_Good, _he thought, able to breathe a sigh of relief. He took another drag of the cigar, this one just for good measure. _It's just as I thought._

He looked back up at the mover. The insane glint in the boy's eyes had died, by now, and was instead replaced by a well-blended mixture of disbelief and fear. His face had gone stark white. He looked as if he might cry, if given time enough to process.

"What . . . What the _hell?" _He squeaked, backing up a step.

Slicer smiled. He had to fight a brief, primal urge to rush the boy and pin him against the wall, but it was defeated easily enough. The look on the kid's face seemed to be enough for now. Finding out that your power didn't work against someone, especially when that someone was aiming to kill you with every reach of his being, couldn't have been an easy revelation.

He gestured to the chair. This time the boy's eyes followed that way, a helpless that seemed almost pitiful.

"See? Don't say I didn't warn you," Slicer said amiably, sitting in his own chair. Once again, the wood screamed like a dying maiden, but the boy definitely noticed, now. He gave a noticeable jump, as if someone had maybe come up behind him and goosed him on the ass. This sight made Slicer chuckle beneath his breath. If the boy's nerves were already _this _shot, he _hated_ to see what they'd look like by the time _this_ conversation was over.

"Just sit down, a minute. Catch a little rest," He invited, smiling through the growing cloud of haze. The boy didn't act as if he'd sit down, but he didn't act as if he'd _run, _either. And that was probably a smart avenue. After what had just happened to Connell, anyone who found him out there was more likely to crack his spine than ask questions.

"There's a reason you came here, and it's probably because you have questions. That's good. Because _I _have some questions, too . . . And maybe you can help me get them answered."

****************************************************************

After about three minutes of bludgeoning panic and the stupidly simple need to scream for help until his lungs started bleeding, Stan finally managed to tell himself that things were going to be all right. Yes, he'd made a stupid decision by choosing to come here. And yes, he'd been a foolish enough to get himself captured. Looking at the situation now, he'd accomplished nothing but getting himself into something that would most likely end in pain. And not just _any _pain; by the sadistic laughs Bitchy had been uttering each time he'd kneed Stan in the crotch or 'accidentally' slammed him into a wall, this would end in the type of _pain _that would have him slicing his own wrists if a razor happened to be around.

But, still, there was _hope. _Because even though it would most likely be painful, and even though it would probably be long, an _end _was an _end. _Whatever way this turned out, rosy or not, at the end of the day he'd wake up in his bed back home. Maybe a little rattled, and perhaps just a little bit worse for wear . . .

_But I'll still be home. Home, with Kyle and Cartman . . . And able to tell them everything that I just saw. _

Looking around him, there wasn't much left of that to relay. Sure, the Three Fucka-teers that had snagged him were a little worth the warning about (or, the _Two _Fucka-teers, now; after that throw, he doubted that even a _brain cell _of Bitchy was still alive) but nothing else really seemed that intriguing. He was in an old, dilapidated building, most likely a warehouse. Most of the lights didn't work, and the ones that did were spitting out the rest of their lives with an almost eager wastefulness. There was a smell in the air. A _bad _smell, that of mold and stale urine.

The only thing notable at all about the picture before him was the man. And _notable _seemed the very _least _of what he was. He was _big. _Almost _unbelievably_ big, with shoulders so broad they could have touched either wall in a four by four closet. His face was covered by a mixture of shadow, scarring and stubble that had spread out like a wildfire across the harsh planes of his features.

The harshest, perhaps, was the cigar. It stuck from his mouth like a snorkel, and spouted a clear steam from the tip that reminded Stan of a factory bellows.

_And he . . . I . . . I couldn't hurt him, _He thought, not able to bear saying it even in his thoughts. They stumbled and caught over the horrifying sentence, refusing to string words together that could mean something so _terrible. _Something so _hopeless. I looked at him, gave him a full blast, and he--_

The chair next to Stan screamed in agony as the rickety old legs were pushed across the floor. Stan flinched, looked up . . . And saw the big man's boot on the lip of the seat, pushing the chair out. So he wanted him to sit, did he? Wanted him to crawl up in that termite-infested hunk of wood, sit down across from him, and actually _talk? _Actually give him _answers?_

"Come on, kiddo. Have a seat. No sense in standing when there's a perfectly good chair here." The big man rumbled, almost amiably.

Stan looked up at the chair, shot it a reproachful look that danced on the outermost borders of immaturity. What was the harm in a little gentle rebellion? The way things had gone so far, the maniacs had claimed all the victories. What was the harm in giving _himself just _a little win?

"No thanks, but I'd rather stand." He stated flatly, jutting his hands into his jean pockets and putting his eyes on the cement.

"Are you sure? We're going to be here for a while, I think. You might as well rest your legs while you can." _No, you asswipe, we're only going to be here as long as it takes for you to tell me about Kenny, _Stan thought about saying, but decided it wouldn't be wise. It was true that, in most situations, _he _was used to having the upper hand . . . But apparently, it wasn't so in this one. He'd looked at this fag and given him every inch of power he had, and for whatever rhyme or reason it hadn't been enough. This was enough to scare Stan. As a matter of fact, if he hadn't have been astral, he had a feeling it would have been enough to _terrify _him. But at least he had that. He might not in the future-- a thought that _did _have the power to terrify him, and did it very well-- but for now, he did. He was safe.

_And if I do what he wants, for now, it might make him more apt to tell me what I want him to, _He thought quickly, the thought of submitting so harsh that it brought a bad taste to his tongue. But it was true. Like it or not, it was _true, _and he might have to taste a _whole lot more _bad flavors before this thing was over. Best to suck it up and go with it.

And so, with a feeling like his heart was being mashed by a strong fist, he began trudging toward the chair.

"All right. Whatever," He mumbled, grabbing the splintery wooden seat and beginning to climb up top.

By the time his rear end was sitting on the seat, the gapped planks of wood pinching irritatingly at the backs of his legs, he could see that he was dealing with something _a lot worse _than the homestead portrayed. Sure, they were in a building that would probably fall down if a chink was taken from the wood, but when Stan's eyes fell onto the table he really didn't think that mattered anymore. Why _should _it? Why _should _the dwelling of a person matter so much, when by looking at the four photographs lying on the tabletop he _clearly _meant to kill you? At first Stan had to blink to make sure that it wasn't just illusions created by the dusty whirls of cigar ash. But when he blinked at _least _four times, fairly certain that cigar ash couldn't create details so finite, he was sure it was true.

His eyes moved right to left, taking in each separate face.

_Cartman . . . Butters . . . Kyle . . ._

He swallowed. The last photograph left a bitter taste in his mouth, and a dry lump the size of Chicago dangling in the center of his throat.

_ME. Cartman, Butters, Kyle . . . And ME._

He moved his eyes up from the photographs, his mind roaring in his ear that _something was missing. _Before he could even bother to ask himself what that something was, he noticed movement from the top of his eyes and regarded the Big Man. He was reclining in the chair across from Stan, fingering the cigar that dangled from the corner of his mouth. In his hand was a photograph. A singed, blackened, hole-riddled photograph.

_Kenny, _Stan thought, his heart skipping a beat.

The Big Man let out a plume of smoke. It rushed unrestrained through his lips, swallowing the photograph and clouding the air around Stan's face.

"I'll bet you were looking for this one, weren't you?" he asked, in a voice so deep and tattered that it sprouted razor blades beneath Stan's skin. He leaned forward in his chair and slowly began to turn the photograph, letting stray little slivers of light pass through each black-tipped hole. Cigar holes, Stan instantly knew. Cigar holes, but for what reason?

When the picture was turned fully toward him, Stan could see that the _reason _was most likely unadulterated hatred. Though the cigar holes were disproportionate and clumsy, it was quite obvious that there were at least _three _places the Big Man had been specifically trying to target; both eyes, and the heart. It didn't matter where the other holes had fallen. These three were painstakingly clear.

Stan felt his heart begin to beat up in his throat. Just as the cry was due to pass from his lips, the cry of _what the hell have you done with my friend, _the Big Man was laughing in a gentle, roll-along-the-spine sort of way.

"Yep. I _knew _that's what you'd come here for, kid," He chortled, tossing the picture down in front of Stan.

Stan only looked at it for a moment. After this moment-- this moment in which he felt the _power _burning behind his eyeballs, the way it often did when things had surpassed his level of control-- he tipped his head back toward the man, _sure _that this time he would go flying. He didn't, but that only held minimal disappointment. What Stan would have liked to do instead, what he really _wanted _to do, was grab the fucker's cigar and shove it _right up his nose, _maybe into his _brain. _

"What did you do to him?" He asked instead, barely restraining himself to the seat. He moved his hands, which had been twitching madly on top of the card table, to the seat beside him and sat on them, hoping the pressure would bring him back down to earth. But it wasn't working well, so far. He still felt so angry that launching himself over the table seemed a passable feat.

"Where is he? Is . . . Is he alive?" The man chuckled, again. Where it had been comforting before, Stan now had to grit his teeth to bear through it without screaming.

"Alive? Of course he is. Why do you think I would have went through the trouble of _bringing _him here, if I was just going to kill him?"

Where Stan normally would have breathed a sigh of relief here, if it had been Kyle or Butters or _even _Cartman, he _couldn't, _now. Because this was _Kenny. _The guy who could resurrect from any death on any occasion, no matter _what_ form or fashion. And usually just where they needed him, conveniently enough.

But if this guy hadn't killed him . . .

_Holy shit. He's probably been miserable since the moment he went missing._

A stab of misery tried to work its way through his heart. Before it could become evident on his face--which he _knew _would be bad, judging by the previous comments the man before him had made-- he shifted in the chair, hoping to receive a wake-me-up pinch from the treacherous planks of wood. This he received in spades. However, instead of waking him up, the pinch was so unbelievably painful that it sprang tears to his eyes.

_Son of a bitch. I make one stupid mistake and the whole world's out to get me, _He thought absently, rubbing his singing rear end.

"So he _is_ here? What did you bring him here for?" He finally managed to ask.

He had been trying to sound passively casual. By the expression that crossed the Big Man's face, that slight raising of an eyebrow and curl at the sides of his mouth, he doubted that he'd managed. Probably desperate, at best.

"That's a lot that you expect me to answer there, isn't it, kiddo?" the man asked, puffing out his smoke again. This time, unheeded by the photograph, it reached Stan's face and enveloped him in a dark and pungent cloud. His throat immediately closed on it, in an action that seemed almost trained. Barking coughs leaped to the back of his throat.

"Don't you think you'd better answer some things for _me_, first? After all, _you're _the one that intruded." Stan opened his mouth to say _ME? Answer questions for YOU? You can shove _that _right where the sun doesn't shine, _but he was too busy fighting back relentless, body-wrenching coughs. Some unfortunate part deep inside of him tried to say that the big man had fired his smoke in his face _just on purpose, _just to get him coughing, because if he had a photograph he probably knew more about him than just what his face looked like. Hell, he probably knew where he _lived. _Where everyone _else _lived.

_Where _Butters _lives. They attacked his house, didn't they? _He thought, swiping sharp prickles of water from his stinging eyes.

By the time he had finished composing himself and looked back up, the Big Man had lifted another photograph from the table. This one was whole, and _completely _unharmed . . . But suspiciously close to the fabled cigar, and probably destined to meet it at some star-crossed halfway point.

"You know, I had an idea that your power wouldn't work on me," the Big Man said vacantly, flicking ashes from the tip of his cigar.

Stan's eyes darted to the collection of photographs. There was Cartman's, looking politely grim, Butters with a dopey smile on his face . . . Kenny with two charred holes for eyes and a heart . . .

But no Kyle. No familiar, school-picture-fake smiling Kyle.

He felt his heart plummet from his chest.

_Don't show it now. You're scared, you're _fucking _terrified, but get a grip on yourself. Because none of this is going to help Kenny, none of this is going to help _Kyle, _so . . . Oh God, it's . . ._

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, not even sure what he was asking _about. _Just knowing that it matched what had been said before, and that it filled up empty air. "I don't understand."

"Why, I mean just what I said, kiddo. No deviations. Nothing complicated," The Big Man rumbled in his low tenor, still studying Kyle's picture. He turned it this way and that, in little half revolutions, as if trying to get a feel for every feature on Kyle's face. Noticing the peculiar way the man's lip curled as he did this made Stan's skin crawl. "Now, don't get me wrong: you _are _one powerful little son of a bitch. If you _weren't, _you wouldn't have been able to do what you just did to Connell. You wouldn't have been able to hurt Jacqueline, either . . . And probably not even Dupree." Stan cocked an eyebrow. He _was _interested, he found, but worry for his best friend was a shouting nuisance in the back of his mind.

"Dupree?" He asked, his brain temporarily a dead circuit. "Who's--" "Ahh, _come_ _on_, kid. Don'ttellmeyou don't remember Friday night," the big man barked, his voice hiding just the slightest tinge of irritation. He kicked back in the wooden chair, making it scream like a cat caught in a furnace, and propped his heavy boots on the surface of the table. It made the whole thing rock violently like a tugger boat caught in a turbulent sea.

"You remember? That guy you threw repeatedly against the wall? Trying to defend your petrified little friend, and I can't say I blame you . . . But you messed him up pretty bad, kid. Turned his brains into pea soup. I had to kill the poor guy just to put him out of his misery." Stan thought briefly on this, and smiled when he came back with the memory. Ah, yes. _Dupree. _The one they'd been talking about in the hall, when Bitchy had said he'd like to 'give him a taste of his own damned medicine'.

"Oh, yeah," He said quietly, still staring at the back of Kyle's photograph.

"Yeah, kid. You _hurt_ him. I might even go so far as to say you _murdered _him, but . . . You don't need that on your conscience, do you? A kid as bright and promising as you? You'd probably lose _a whole lot of sleep._"

_Yeah. A _whole _lot. Like, not even one night, _Stan felt like saying, but knew that sarcasm wouldn't be a wise avenue. Though it was tempting-- as it _always _was, especially when you knew you had nothing else-- he didn't think it would do anything to help him figure out why the big man was holding Kyle's photo. Holding it, and _sneering _at it, as if it held a particularly bad smell.

_Glaring at it, _with an expression that declared a feeling of utmost hatred.

_He can do whatever the hell he wants to me, but if he comes after _Kyle_ . . ._

Just _thinking _this brought a fierce sort of determination to Stan's heart that was clearly dangerous. He held onto it somewhat, somewhere deep in the back of his mind . . . Because he wanted it there when he needed it.

_And even though there's no telling when that will be, it'll probably be soon. Because you don't look at someone like that for just no reason. You look at someone like that if you _hate _them. If you want to . . . To _kill _them._

All of the carefulness and tentative regard was suddenly stripped from his demeanor. He looked back up at the big man, feeling that burning behind his eyes but frustrated because he could do nothing about it, aware that walking on eggshells as he had been doing before was the _last _thing he wanted to do now.

"Okay, so if that's the case then what do you mean you didn't think my powers would work on you?" He asked, his voice much louder and more demanding than before. He saw a flicker of a change cross the Big Man's persona, a small jerk in his seemingly languid composure, but he ignored it. "If they worked so well on everyone else, than what made you think they wouldn't--?"

The Big Man sat up a little straighter in his chair, pulled it up a little closer to the table. He still held Kyle's picture in his hand, but to the side and thankfully away from the sizzling cigar. Behind the big glasses he wore-- some kind of sunglasses, Stan gathered, or perhaps shades for the blind-- his eyebrows had become slightly furrowed. "Because things that are the same over time generally don't change their course just out of the wild blue yonder, kid," He responded, flicking his ashes to the side. They landed squarely on Cartman's frowning face, letting out faint little coils of smoke, but thankfully not burning through the finish. "I would have taken a notion to be a bit more cautious, but I've dealt with Inheritors before."

Stan cocked his head. _Inheritors? _Was that another one of those strange words he'd heard while eavesdropping in the hallway?

"Inheritors?" He asked, his voice a little more inquisitive than he would have liked.

The Big Man smiled past the cigar. This time, it was enough to show _tee__th . . . _and enough to remind Stan eerily of an angry dog baring its fangs.

"Yes. _Inheritors, _being what you _are. _And how you got your powers, of course. You had to get them from somewhere, right?" When Stan nodded at this, more out of habit than desire, he continued, "There's always been a mover. And just as there's always been a mover, he's always been the strongest. As you obviously are." Stan got the angle that this was meant to inflate his ego a bit, but it didn't. Because, either way, that little ego-inflation was meant to be a _distraction, _and a _distraction _was something he couldn't deal with right now.

The Big Man had paused, as if to allow Stan commentary on this. When Stan said nothing, only continued looking at him expectantly, he continued.

"But even though the mover's always been the strongest, that doesn't mean he holds the _key," _He said, his posture relaxing a little bit again. His big shoulders sagged over the table, making it give a creak like old, sun-dried leather._ "_Every one that I've ever faced has been a leader of sorts, I guess, always trying to defend his fellows . . . But never quite able to really _grasp _what truly needs protecting."

He took one last look at Kyle's picture-- one long, lingering, _heat-filled _look-- and then tossed it back to the table before him. It landed much in the way Kenny's had, in a skittering, corner-to-corner tuck and roll . . . But at its final position ended up right in between Stan's elbows, which he had been propping listlessly on the tabletop. He was suddenly looking at the picture whether he wanted to or not. Kyle's eyes, a dull sort of hazel that mostly favored on the brown side, were suddenly penetrating him with a blank-eyed stare, drilling him with something he didn't want to have to face.

They were gentle eyes. Almost _innocent. _The very same eyes Stan had known practically his entire life, and had been super best friends with for the bulk of.

_The eyes that are watching me right now, _He thought, a not unpleasant warmth billowing into the center of his chest. _The eyes that are guarding my actual body, and making sure that I stay safe._

Thinking about this took him away from everything else, temporarily. It was a pleasant couple of seconds, unlamented by the kind blessings of pungent cigar smoke and bitchy-voiced maniacs . . . But, unfortunately, rather short-lived. It only took one note of the Big Man's deep, rolling laughter to snap him out of it.

"So he's your little buddy, is he? Your pal?"

Feeling a tiny twist of suspicion, Stan nodded. He continued looking down at the familiar photograph, studying the vacant, film-frozen stare in his best friend's hazel eyes. Wondering if everything was all right on the other side. Wondering if Kyle was simply worried, or absolutely standing on his head by now.

"Yeah. Of _course. _What's it to you?" He responded absently, still not entirely there.

Another chuckle, this one louder. _Amused. _

"No reason. Let's just talk about him, for a second, shall we? Let's have a little chat about your friend."

Stan abandoned his survey of the picture. He snapped his eyes back onto the Big Man, feeling them surge and pulse with the beginnings of his strange and powerful gift. Even knowing that it probably wouldn't do him any good, here, it still made him feel better. If it couldn't knock back the bastard _himself, _it could at least knock the chair from underneath him.

"Why do you want to know about Kyle?" He demanded, subconsciously slapping a palm over the photo.

The Big Man grinned behind the cigar, flashing Stan a mouth full of tar-ridden gums and nicotine-stained teeth. The picture was ugly, and so _revolting _that it would have brought a gag to Stan's throat were he capable . . . But feelings other than worry for his best friend were news from a distant country. He couldn't describe what he was feeling as anger, because he wasn't exactly _mad. . . _but maybe _protectiveness _was the right word. Protectiveness for his best friend, who, despite being assertive and a desperately strong spirit, had never done anything but right by anyone. Had never done anything but try to protect his friends and those he loved, and had been nothing but a great best friend for the last five years Stan had known him.

_Protectiveness? _That was only the beginning of it. After all the strange and wacky adventures Kyle Broflovski had stood by him through, Stan wouldn't have doubted if there were stronger words than _that._

The Big Man laughed at this revelation, as if able to hear Stan's thoughts. It briefly struck him that, even if the man _had _heard them_, _it really wouldn't have surprised him.

"Well, well, well. Do I sense a little bit of a sore spot there, kiddo?" He asked laughably, chuckles breaking up his rough voice. "Threaten the best friend, and you go out for vengeance? Is that it?"

Stan said nothing. Only stared the man down with his eyes, wishing _more than ever _that they'd have some effect. But even if the man himself wouldn't move, there was always the cigar. The confounding, everlasting cigar, that not only smelled bad but was also the perfect size to clog a windpipe.

_Yeah. Yeah, that's it, _He thought hopefully, slightly smiling. Not watching the man anymore at all, but keeping his eyes on the cancer stick that had suddenly become his one and only life line._ That should shut him up._

However, for the mean time, it was best to keep him talking, Which the man did, in that same friendly, conversational tone.

"Well, you can relax for a minute, if that's the case. Because this isn't a threat, kiddo. I promise. Just a few general questions."

_Well, you know what I have to say to that, _Stan thought bitterly, still staring at the cigar. It struck him as slightly odd that the man hadn't called him out about this yet, but dumb luck was _always _a virtue. And besides, even if he had, that was good. At least it would help him to realize that there were _other _ways a telekinetic could gain the upper hand.

"It's all stuff the precog wouldn't tell me. Which is pretty much _everything, _when you get down to it," The Big Man continued. This sentence was followed by a laugh, which sounded opaquely nervous. Stan picked up on this instantly, but didn't think it was anything to bank his money on. What the guy have to be nervous about, in the face of a 'defenseless' child?

"He's a headstrong little fucker, your precog is. An irritating little _bastard. _But you're smarter than that, right? Smart enough to answer a few questions for me, so you can be on your merry little way?"

_Yeah right, asshole. Don't insult my intelligence. You wouldn't let me go even if I killed all of my friends _myself, Stan thought, unable to stop the little frown that dented the space between his eyebrows.

"I don't know. I guess that all depends on whether or not you tell me why you want to know about Kyle." He responded monotonously, flickering his eyes briefly to the Big Man's face as he spoke. He was ecstatic-- and a little surprised-- to see that nervousness had _definitely _come to rise there, for whatever rhyme or reason. It was Kyle, most definitely. Something about _Kyle._

He logged this away into the back of his brain, and continued focusing on the cigar. It had burned to a point that was less than half way, by now, but still_ more _than enough to clog a pig's wind pipe.

Just as he was thinking this, the Big Man shifted. It was enough to move the cigar around substantially, and take it out of Stan's carefully executed focus.

"Wow. You sure are a demanding little shit, aren't you?" the man asked, a coat of maliciousness dripping from his words. For the first time in the length of the conversation, Stan detected vapid anger spiking his large companion's voice. _Anger enough to make him kill me, I wonder? Surely I couldn't be _that _lucky. _

"If you were smart like I thought you were you'd shut your damned mouth and answer the questions, kiddo. Unless you want your tongue tied in a knot and shoved down your throat, that is."

Stan gave a thin smile, at this. The expression that crossed the Big Man's face pleased him, but also _terrified _him, at that-- because it was a look that rivaled the one he'd given Kyle's photograph not ten minutes earlier. A look of hatred. Of _contempt._

Still, his sarcasm found its sweet way out.

"Well, Jesus. Then I guess you'd _never _know about Kyle, would you?" He asked, trying to keep the laughter from his voice. He succeeded, but only mildly; short little giggles still burst from his last words, making them loud and slightly breathy. Normally in a situation such as this, he might have tried to hide his amusement . . . But what the hell did he have to lose? He was astral, he was _helpless, _and any second now he was going to have to either spill dirt about his best friend, or die. Why not speed processes a little bit?

To his great disappointment, the Big Man neither questioned him further _nor _made any moves to kill him. Instead he clasped the cigar tightly with two fingers, that slightly cocky, hopeful and yet still vaguely nervous smile once again cracking his nicotine-yellowed face.

He gestured toward Stan with a gentle nod of his head.

"You know you're flickering, right?" He asked, moving the cigar back to his lips. Taking in another inhale of the brown smoke, his eyelids fluttering ever so slightly as if the action put him on the outermost edges of heaven. It reminded Stan of something dirty he had seen once. Something he had seen a time long, long ago, back when he was still small enough to sneak behind the couch late at night and watch the shows his parents would put him to bed to enjoy.

"I think you might have laughed a little bit too hard."

Stan looked down at himself at the big man's statement. And, lo and behold, there it was. He _was doing it. _He was _flickering. _After what felt like _hours _of waiting and waiting for this to happen, praying and praying through the abuse at the hands of Bitchy and the endless, threatening questions at the mercy of the Big Man, here was the first sign that he was soon to return to his original body. The brief periods of transparency. That feeling of _aloofness._

And suddenly, as if to go along with it, a feeling of such relieved joy that it sprung fresh tears to the surface of his eyes.

_So long, you son of a bitch, _He thought happily, looking back up at his captor for what he hoped would be the final time. He bunched his fists tightly on the table, watching as the worn mahogany briefly showed itself through his dissipating body. _So long, and good fucking riddance._

The Big Man chortled in front of him, one last time. Stan couldn't help but think that this noise was just a tad bittersweet, just a tad _scorned . . . _but he was _way _past being bothered by such, now. He was home free. Back to Kyle in less than a minute, to tell him everything he'd learned.

_And boy, is it a story._

Unfortunately, no matter _how _short his time left here was, it was just enough for the Big Man to pull yet another rabbit out of the hat.

He arched his wrist, looked at the top. Realizing that nothing about this place really mattered anymore, Stan almost didn't pay attention . . . But was very glad that he did. _Desperately _glad. Because if he hadn't have, if he'd have just went on and let himself return heedlessly to his original body . . .

He might never have known what was happening to Wendy.

As he looked at his wrist-- or what as apparently a _watch-- _the Big Man grunted. Something about this grunt was enough to alert Stan, something that could have been intuition or precognition or just _simple instinct_ . . . But whatever it was, he instantly knew something was wrong. Knew it as drastically as a sudden fist to the face.

"Hmm. It's about time now, isn't it?" The Big Man asked, his voice teasingly hesitant.

Stan could tell that he was quickly slipping away, but he could fight it back a little longer. Maybe not _much _longer, and maybe not enough to make much of a _difference .. . _but always, _always _just a little bit longer. He couldn't take the tone of the man's voice. It was so . . . _predatory._

"Time for what?" he demanded, his voice coming out distant to his own ears. There was a swimmy feeling in his head, a brief sweep of nausea in the bottom of his gut . . . And a terrible feeling of _being _but _not. _Could he see his room around him? See the vague shapes of two familiar friends, one in a stocking cap and the other a ushanka?

The Big Man turned to Stan, smiled that nicotine smile. The smile was harmless enough, but the look in his eye was _pure evil . . . _enough to liquefy Stan's heart inside his chest, make it cramp like a seizing muscle and labor through each beat.

Perhaps more than that, it was enough to bring one solid word to his frantic, racing mind. Perhaps it was simply intuition. Perhaps it was _Kenny, _working in some strange way to deliver him a vital, life-or-death message.

More than that, he believed it was fate. Fate, and maybe even love.

_Wendy._

Just as he felt his heart seize in his chest, and just as the nausea and spinning head ache grew strong enough to nearly floor him, the Big Man spoke his final words to Stan. He barely heard them, through the race going on inside his own head and the repeated mental screaming of his girlfriend's name . . . but in the following nights, after waking up from some terrible nightmare drenched in chilling sweat, they would _always _be lingering at the forefront of his brain.

"Sayonara, kiddo. If you're lucky, you might be able to save her."

Horrible words, things he'd never dreamed of saying in his life and was never aware he _knew _to say flared up boastfully in his mind. He would have shouted them as loud as he could, would have ripped a hole in the freaking _atmosphere _just to get at least _one _of them in before his departure . . .

But by the time they reached his mind, he was incapable.

He was gone.

And he could only pray that, by some divine intervention by whatever Gods that were, _she _wouldn't be, too.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Hey, guys! Sorry that took so long, but I told you about classes, right? They're _really _knocking me down and out, here. Not to mention writer's block, which I received in _spades, _this time around. I don't know _what _it was, but this chapter was even harder to write than chapter five. And what upset me more was the fact that I couldn't fit KYLE into it, with the concerns of making it too long . . . But at least we got to see Kenny. Or, well . . . _Sort_ _of_. That oughta make you guys really happy.

Okay, so you probably have a jist at the foreshadowing of the next chapter . . . Because Stan wouldn't just LEAVE Wendy, right? Whether Slicer thought she was already dead, or not. And speaking of Slicer . . . What's his fixation with Kyle? Why did he look at his picture that way? Some of you probably already know, because I'm not all that great at the leave-the-clues-and-finish-with-a-fabulous twist sort of thing. If you don't know, you will in due time.

And let me just tell you this: I CANNOT STAND the way this ended. I think it's truly horrible, but I could think of no other way to make it work. You'll see why in the next chapter.

Okay, so . . . I guess I'll see you next time! Hopefully not too long from now!

-Aub


	9. Involvement

Hey, guys! It's Aub, again . . . and let me just tell you that I'm EXTREMELY sorry for the delay in updating. I told you about classes and stuff, but not even _I _expected it to be _this _long . . . because let me assure you, it's no fault of mine. It really sucks to wake up at 6:45 in the morning, ready to write before you have to start getting ready for class . . . and to discover that your entire chapter has been corrupted. Your entire, _nearly-completed _chapter.

Yes. It _sucked_.

But no worries, because I started right over again! And I actually think I like it a little bit better this time around! The old juices started flowing again when I re-wrote it, which was really good . . . because they had gone stale there for a while.

Okay, so last time? Well, not much . . . except the fact that Stan met Slicer! Lucky Stan, right? _Wrong. _Not only does Slicer obviously have something malevolent planned in the future for Kyle, but he also _knowingly _kept Stan from Wendy while his little minions attacked her! So what happens now? Will Stan get to her in enough time to save her life, or will it be too late?

. . . I don't know. Read the chapter, and you'll see.

Before you get into it, though, I want to warn you about something. I just recently read over my story on live preview, and it appears that whenever I post the chapters some spacing issues come up. You guys have probably noticed them—words with no spaces between, paragraphs that are smashed together, converging dialogue, and the like. If you have noticed them and it has impeded your reading in any way, I'm sorry. I've started typing the chapters on a different word processor program, so maybe it'll help us both out. *smile*

OK, I'm done talking. I'd like to formally introduce you to Chapter nine: Involvement!

-Aub

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter nine: Involvement

A mere five minutes before Stanley Marsh woke up pleading his girlfriend's name, Kyle Broflovski came to a monumental revelation. It was something he'd been pondering over for a while, ever since the sudden racing of his unconscious best friend's heart; but something so obvious that he felt like a moron for not noticing it before. Sure, things had gotten a little hectic lately. Hell, more than a little hectic. _Fucking crazy. _

But he _still _didn't think that offered up a proper excuse for his ignorance. With all this crazy stuff going on, what were they going to do if at least _one _of them didn't keep his head?

_But he said that Cartman and I could protect him, _He thought fretfully, looking again from Stan's face to chest to wrist. It was a routine he'd repeated over and over again within the course of the last hour, _at least _thirty times, but it still wasn't making him feel any better. If Stan was so 'okay', why had his heart been racing like a motor boat for the past hour? And _why_, even through the pitiful darts of fading, marmalade-orange sunset, could Kyle see a face as white as carefully maintained porcelain?

_Because when he said that we could protect him, it was obviously a lie, _He thought bitterly, frowning more with concern than with anger. His hand remained pinched over Stan's wrist, as it had been and would be for the rest of the night . . . but a part of him couldn't help but see the redundancy. After all, what good had it done before?

_All we can do is sit here and . . . look at him. Look at him, and feel fucking helpless._

He heard the slither of denim against linen as Cartman shifted his substantial weight. It was amazing to Kyle that the fatass had bothered to even stay at _all, _when the luxuries of teleporting into Stan's room didn't include Cheesy Poofs every hour . . . but he had to admit, it was a little impressive. As a matter of fact, _everything _he'd seen today from Eric Cartman had been somewhat surprising. _Especially_ coming from the way of a boy who'd practiced nothing but the art of being a brash, unfeeling asshole for the bulk of his life.

_But this experience has changed all of us,_ _I guess, _Kyle thought absently, choking back a yawn that threatened to gap open his entire face. It sprung sharp tears to his eyes, distorting the picture of his funeral-worthy best friend into something that looked like a sidewalk-chalk painting after a rainstorm. _It changed Cartman for the better, I guess, and that's good, but . . ._

He needed not finish the thought. Just looking down at his hands, at his unsteady, trembling, _clammy _hands, was enough to convince him that not _everything _was okay in the neighborhood. Sure, Cartman was pretty stable. And Stan even seemed to be okay, as well, by some divine intervention by whatever Gods that were. Butters had been taking everything in stride . . . and to Kenny, it all seemed to be just another ordinary day in the ball park.

_So why is it that I can't even _close my eyes _without feeling like someone's sneaking up behind my back? _

He'd been denying it as long as possible. 'Possible' had been a little bit over a month, ever since the first time he'd realized the direness of their situation . . . and, unfortunately, ever since the first time he'd realized the human skull could crack like an egg. He might not have been so aware of this fact had it not been his _very own _skull . . . but it had been, and now here he was. Terrified. Messed up.

_Broked._

For a while, he'd thought he would be fine. Thought that he'd just be able to forget about it, and go on with his life, as if he _didn't _have the equivalent of dynamite packed into his hands. But that was before Friday night had happened. That was before he'd realized that not only was this situation _real, _as scary and out of this world as it had seemed . . . but also that there were only two options. Two old, well-repeated options, just as grim as they were blunt.

Kill, or be killed.

And in the state he was in now, Kyle wasn't sure which one of those things had a higher chance of happening.

Sitting here hunched over Stan's limp form, violently yawning and trying like hell not to collapse into the old, cracked appliqué in the center of his shirt, certainly wasn't helping him to come to a solid decision. But as many times as he'd tried to separate himself from Stan—a _lot _of times, as it turned out, because he was just so damned _tired—_he always found that, in the end, he couldn't do it. He knew a part of it had to do with the fear of letting that rapid, drumming heart beat go on unmonitored until it wore itself out . . . but he also knew that another, even _bigger _part was the thought of leaving his best friend under the sole care of the fat tub of lard sitting behind him.

_He's been being okay so far today, but how can I trust him not to do something stupid? After everything else he's done, all these years . . . am I just supposed to _trust _him again?_

Though knowing that Stan would definitely say otherwise—forgive and forget was the poor boy's motto, bless his soul—Kyle believed the answer was a definite no. Because, as good as he was at being an insensitive asshole, Eric Cartman was _phenomenal _at fooling people into believing what he wanted them to. Kyle delighted himself in the knowing that he was pretty much the only one this tactic had never worked on . . . and he wasn't even _about _to lower himself from that position now.

As if to coincide with these thoughts, Cartman's fat, piggish voice bloomed up from behind him. The tone was kind enough, but a part of Kyle _still_ wanted to knock his teeth out.

"Damn, how long is it going to take him to wake his ass up? It's getting dark outside. What if dinner is ready before I get home?"

Kyle was about to raise his voice at the blatant _selfishness _of the comment, raise his voice and _cuss, _no matter what that might do to his vigil of Stan . . . until he noted the second meaning of the remark. It was subtle, and fairly buried, but he chose to go with it. If he didn't, he had a feeling this night would end _very ugly._

"Dude, if you're worried about your mom figuring out that you're gone, go ahead and leave," He said absently, trying not to portray the tense anger in his voice. He still spoke through his teeth, but he figured that was vague enough; as manipulative as he was, the fatass had never been great at judging emotions.

"I'll be fine on my own. It's not like you're _doing _anything, anyway."

There was a small, uncharacteristic pause. Kyle could sense the frown that dimpled the fat boy's face as if it were right in front of him, but found that he was desperately beyond caring. When had he _ever _cared? Consistency was always nice.

After this short pause, Cartman let out a little scoff and said, "Well if there _was _something to do around here, Jewboy, I might be doing it. But there isn't. Stan gets to take a nap, and we get to sit here and _watch _him. What's the fun in that?"

Kyle felt a dangerous level of anger sink its teeth into his heart. Had he given himself another moment to think about it, he might have decided he was overreacting . . . because not getting any sleep had never sat well with him. Being _afraid _had never set well with him. But before he could do anything, before he could even _attempt_ to calm himself down or reason things out, he was whirling on Cartman, some part inside of him still blissfully aware enough to make him keep his hands at his sides.

"You have no idea what he's seeing right now, fatass! _None!" _He shouted, hearing the sound of his own voice and letting it scare him a little. It sounded wounded, that voice. Exhausted. _Worn out. _Ready to jump into the next cart on the way to the looney bin, and never take another look back.

Apparently, Cartman detected the very same factor. Kyle was amused—and, amazingly, just a little _ashamed_—to see Cartman's eyes widen just the slightest bit, in what could only be described as fear for his life. His hands twitched as his sides, as if contemplating the thought of holding them up to ward Kyle off . . . but in the end they stayed down in the blankets, buried in a combination of linen and over-the-hill fleece. This was all good, to Kyle. _Excellent. _Because he thought that gesture, just that _one little gesture of _submission_, _might have been enough to toss him over the edge.

This graceful moment of stupefied fear couldn't have lasted more than two seconds. After these two seconds Cartman gave a bothered scoff, frowned, and shifted himself against the pillows. He was now sitting just in front of Stan's limp feet, a position that would come to be, in a length of what was now only two minutes, very dangerous.

"Jesus Christ, Kyle. Why don't you just raise your voice loud enough for his mom to hear? I bet he'd appreciate that," He said sourly, suddenly finding more interesting things to look at in the pattern of the sheets.

"Yeah? What he would _really _appreciate is some support, right now. It's not just _any_ guy that would believe a story like yours—a story that sounds like complete _bullshit—_ and bank on it enough to put himself in danger. You should be thanking him. Because this is all your fault."

He said this last sentence simply. _Dryly. _Without the slightest hint of blame or resentment. After all, comments like that always sizzled harder, didn't they? The ones you didn't mean to make pry beneath the receiver's skin?

Apparently, this theory was correct. Kyle had turned back to Stan, by then, and was studying the strange way that some of the color seemed to be returning to his best friend's porcelain cheeks . . . but Cartman was strangely somber. Strangely _calm. _Strangely out of the mood to dish odd, offensive insults, and more willing than normal to take them.

_You are now entering The Twilight Zone, _Kyle thought shortly, with such punctuality that he was forced to choke back a laugh.

"Come on. He's not _really_ in danger, is he?" Cartman asked finally, laughing a little at the end in a short, forceful way that let Kyle instantly know it was a _huge_ emotional cover-up. "You told me he couldn't die like that! And the last time he did it, he didn't get hurt at all."

"Yeah. But _last time _he didn't project himself into what could be a _beehive _of monsters who want his head on a stick," Kyle responded curtly, pinching his fingers ever tighter on Stan's wrist. Was his skin getting just a bit warmer? His pulse a bit stronger? It would take a bit of studying to be sure, but he believed they were.

"And what I'm worried about isn't him getting _hurt, _fatass. It's about what he might _see. _Not about what might hurt his body . . . but what might hurt his _mind."_

Cartman gave another short, fake laugh. Fake as it was—_and _indicative of emotion other than concern about himself—Kyle couldn't help but grit his teeth against the sound. Old habits were hard to break, and there was something about that sound that made him feel _awful. Dreadful._

"Well, _that's _retarded. Why are you worried about a stupid thing like that?" Cartman asked through a nervous chuckle.

"Maybe because of the fact that his _eyes_ can do more damage than a _military_ _tank_. Maybe _that's _why." Kyle hissed, through teeth clenched so tightly that he could hear his jaw groaning.

Another short, fake laugh from Cartman. As revealing as they were, Kyle was beginning to find them just the _teensiest_ bit annoying.

"Well _that's_ stupid. It's not like he's going to just instantly wake up, and—"

Suddenly, as if to punctuate this statement, one of Stan's feet came flying up from the mattress beside them. Kyle saw it as nothing but a blur from the corner of his eye, but not even the numb shellac of his exhaustion could keep him from knowing what was happening; because in that very same instant, as if linked with the lashing of his foot, Stan's pulse stuttered and jumped beneath his fingers.

Heat jumped into Kyle's face. He felt sweat spring to his skin and cloud the palms of his hands, turning the environment between his and Stan's contact into a jungle of humid, sweltering heat.

_Stan, _He thought briskly, unable to stop the tiny smile that curved his lips. It seemed almost painful after this hour of utmost misery, almost like a fissure cracking through his face . . . but welcome, just the same.

_It's him. Coming back. He's _finally _coming back._

"Stan?" He asked eagerly, throwing his best friend's wrist to the side and leaning slightly back. He wasn't sure of much yet, but there was one thing he was _definitely _sure of; that he didn't want to be in the path of those eyes when they opened. "Stan, are you okay? What did you—"

Before he could get the question out, the question that was meant to be w_hat did you see, _he heard an unpleasant sound behind him. He could describe it as nothing more extravagant than perhaps the sound of a golf club hitting a watermelon, but it was still ominous enough . . . because there was something _violent _in that sound. Something _brutal. _

And when he looked away from his best friend and turned around, anticipation making the action seem as grueling as if it were in slow motion, he could see that _brutal _was only one of many ways to describe it.

"_My face!" _Cartman shrieked, clutching his hands over a nose that had suddenly become a fountain of sticky, bright-red blood. It gushed over his fingers and pattered onto the blankets below, dribbling the crisp white linens with a splash of crimson color. _"My face! That asshole kicked me in the face!"_

Kyle could only blink at Cartman for a moment, thinking one thing. He felt a little bad for thinking it, knowing that compassion was one of his most self-valued attributes; but looking back on the fatass's previous antics, _and _his earlier comments of today, how could it be helped?

_Jesus. It's about _time_ somebody else gave him what he deserves besides me, _He thought bluntly, granting Cartman a pitied up-and-down glance.

He had his mouth opened to say something to him, probably something along the lines of _don't get mad at Stan, he didn't mean to do it, _when he heard a powerful rustling from behind him. Heard, and _felt_, in the form of something small and cold falling unceremoniously in the center of his back.

He gasped, startled. Before he could attemptto wipe the stupefied look from his face or even make a _pass _at regaining his breath, he was being reacquainted with the voice of his best friend for the first time in two hours.

"Wendy," Stan said with a soft and determined simplicity, firm enough to make Kyle shudder. His voice sounded unblemished and clear as a bell, if not just slightly groggy . . . but that was to be expected after ventures such as these. Kyle was surprised he was speaking _at all, _much less comprehensibly.

He turned to his best friend, so ecstatically happy to hear that voice that he could have squealed with delight. Instead of taking this somewhat girly avenue he settled with sitting by Stan's head instead, looking down at eyes that he'd envisioned would be violent and dangerous with rage. He saw none of these things, to his instant relief; nothing but the same pair of blue eyes he'd known and trusted for the bulk of his life, embellished by only a touch of spare water glistening in the corners.

"Stan! You're back!" He said happily, ignoring Cartman's long, dramatic snorts from beside him. The blood had already stopped flowing so readily, indicating to Kyle that the injury wasn't a serious one. However, knowing Eric Cartman, he'd beat the dead horse until it was nothing but mashed pulp.

"Are you okay? You sound pretty good. Much better than you did last time." Stan answered none of these questions. He looked up at him, but Kyle wasn't sure if he was really there at all . . . because a vacant sort of shellac was covering his eyes, now. A vacant sort of shellac that made Kyle want to run for cover, possibly even dive beneath the covers. And his eyes were watering profusely, now. Watering as if he might be having a sudden brush with allergies, or maybe even . . .

Maybe even _crying?_

Kyle put a hand on his best friend's arm and slightly frowned, trying to get a good look at those odd and unexplained tears. Before he could bother to ask Stan what was happening, his best friend had gripped his shoulder and was beginning to pull himself up into a sit, grimacing as his spine popped like dry gunshots.

"Wendy. Where is _Wendy_?" He asked forcefully, his voice more demand than question. He turned his head and looked at Kyle with those frightening, vacant eyes, sending out a spike of power so great that it raised the hairs on his arms. Kyle couldn't help but cringe back, a bit. He hated the thought of being afraid of his own best friend, but it didn't take much to remind him that he really _wasn't _Stan when his eyes looked that way; more of an angry, reckless imposter. More of a badass that would kill you before asking questions.

"_Wendy?" _Kyle finally managed to sputter, aware that his tone was just _slightly _annoyed. And he _was _slightly annoyed, when he looked down deep enough . . . because he had to admit, it _was_ a little testing. To be desperately worried about someone, practically _standing on your head, _and have them wake up asking for someone else? It was enough to make him feel like screaming.

"_She's not here, _dude. She wasn't before, either. Don't you remember?" He asked levelly, trying with everything in him not to raise his voice.

Stan continued looking at him only a second more, that violent glint in his eyes never softening even a tad. After Kyle was finished speaking he gave him a short, miffed look—the sort of thing that made Kyle want to punch him, super best friend or _not_—and turned promptly to Cartman, who was still sponging blood from his nose. By the way the scrubbed at it—gently, carefully—Kyle could tell that it was tender.

"What the hell do you want, you fucking asshole?" Cartman whined, his voice nasally and thin through the injury. "You broke my nose, I think. What else do you want to do to me?"

Before Kyle—or even Cartman, apparently—could comprehend, Stan had launched himself at the fatass and seized him by the shoulders, sinking his fingers into their meaty countenance. Cartman gave a notable jolt and hissed like an angered feline, reacting to what was obviously a small degree of pain.

"What the hell, Stan? What did I do to you?" He protested, his voice slightly high with surprise.

"_Wendy!" _Stan shouted again, ignoring Cartman's questions as if he hadn't spoken at all. _"_Take me to Wendy!_ Now!"_

Kyle watched the scene unfolding in front of him, scarcely able to do anything save for breathe. _This isn't him, _He was able to think, through his wide, unbelieving eyes and pounding heart. _I don't know what happened to him from the time he projected until now, but it _was not _good. Because this isn't him. This is . . . this is just _wrong.

"Do it, dickhole! Take me to Wendy!" Stan demanded, shaking Cartman when he didn't immediately answer. Kyle hated to admit it, but he actually felt sorry for the fatass; he looked absolutely _terrified, _enough so to soil his pants.

Thankfully, it was enough to break the spell.

"Stan!" Kyle interceded, leaning forward and putting a hand on his best friend's shoulder. Looking at the murderous glint in his eye, it was probably best not to touch him . . . but the way he was shaking Cartman, as if he were nothing but a chew toy fit for a dog, said that murder would come out of this situation either way unless somebody intervened. "Stan, that's enough! He can't do it!"

Stan continued shaking and yelling at Cartman, his speech becoming so loud and frenzied that it reached a point of complete indiscernability . At his disregard, Kyle felt a flicker of frustration lurch into his heart. Before he knew it he was not only touching his best friend's shoulder, but pulling back on it as well, something that was dangerous, possibly even _stupid. _But did it matter anymore? If someone didn't get a handle on this situation, stupidity would be the _least _of their worries.

"Stan! Leave him alone, damn it! What the hell has gotten into you?!"

At Kyle's louder, more demanding voice, Stan dropped his hands from Cartman's shoulders. In an action so fast that it was little less than a blur he turned toward him, acquainting Kyle with a power so great it made every inch of his skin prickle.

It was, once again, shocking to see his best friend looking this way, but Kyle held the feelings back. They were there, lingering just on the edge of his frantic, rapidly moving brain . . . but if it came with getting Stan back down to earth, they could wait.

"He can't teleport to a specific person. Remember?" Kyle asked, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. It was barely manageable; because what he really _wanted _to do was scream, beg for his life and possibly run for cover. If those eyes could twist the bed of an old, well-made pick-up truck, just what could they do to his eight-year-old body? He might have frozen Stan, just so he and Cartman could get a good handle on things before having to deal with this _rage, _but somehow the thought of using his powers on one of his friends seemed incomprehensible. _Traitorous._

And so words were going to have to do it.

"All the shaking and yelling in the _world _won't get you to Wendy. And what's this all about, anyway?" He said a little louder, bringing his hands up to the level of his stomach just in case.

At Kyle's question—maybe even his _voice—_part of the insane glint faded from Stan's eyes. _Part _of it, but not near enough, because Kyle still felt those rays of power like knife blades resting on the very top of his skin.

Stan was quiet for a few moments, breathing through a chest that heaved so strongly that he could have been five minutes back from running a marathon. He continued to stare at Kyle with that sizzling, hair-scorching gaze, through eyes that used to be twinkling, intelligent and just as kind as they were beautiful. Kyle saw none of that, now. None of it _now, _but he could tell it was fast in coming back . . . because at his last sentence, some of the _life _seemed to have returned to that gaze. Some of the _Stan._

And even though this was enough to give Kyle just a smidgen of hope, it still wasn't _near _the convincing he needed to put down his guard. Being hasty could only lead to disaster, and _especially _in something like this. Not two seconds ago he had looked ready as ever to tear Cartman into chunks. Why forget that so suddenly?

As of to answer this question, Stan looked up from his strange, dreary pause. Kyle felt like he was riding the wave of a dream, but it didn't take him long to see that something else had changed . . . because one of the tears had broken, now. One of those strange, shimmering things he'd glimpsed as Stan had first made his way from slumber to wakefulness had spilled from the cup of his eyelid, and was now drawing a silver line down his cheek.

Kyle was briefly silent with shock. He opened his mouth to say something, _anything, anything _to get behind this sudden and dramatic change in behavior . . . but before he could, Stan was already crawling toward the edge of his bed. He did this with a barreling, obsessive speed, as if the bed were a live cavern ready to swallow him whole in a nanosecond.

"I have to get to her. I have to get to her _now," _He mumbled, making his way to the edge of his bed and launching himself off it.

At the thump his feet made on the hardwood, Kyle got his voice back. However, to his horror, Stan was already half way to his door and speeding up each second. Catching him, _warning _him, wouldn't work. By the time the sound hit his ears he'd be _gone._

"Stan! Wait!" He shouted anyway, scooting on his butt toward the edge of the mattress. In his frenzy, he caught into sliding with Stan's down comforter and almost went tumbling . . . but managed to right himself at the last second, by clutching tight onto the cold rail of the bed. "Where the hell are you going?"

When Stan didn't answer or _even bother _to turn around, Kyle listened to his instincts and barreled off after him. He heard Cartman give a nasally protest behind him, something along the lines of 'Hey, you sons of bitches, wait up!', but he was too caught up in the suspense to care. Before he knew it he was thumping down the wooden stair case, watching Stan dart to the oh-so-foreboding front door and praying to _God _that the other Marshes wouldn't see.

"Stan, come back! What the hell is going on?"

**************************************************************************

It was twenty minutes into her walk from Hell's Pass hospital when the man approached her. She had been making good time in her progress back home, actually getting farther than she'd expected she would get in the fading sunlight before it descended into full night. The owls had begun to sing the very first notes of their sorrowful night-time song, and the long shadows of the evening had lengthened their tentacles beside her on the sidewalk.

If night wasn't here already, it was a close neighbor . . . and dinner time was coming ever closer. This would have been a good thing, were she in her room where she was _supposed _to be. At this point in time, she doubted she'd be there in an _hour. _Sure, she was making good time, but healing Butters had taken her longer than she'd thought. It had been (by _far) _the biggest healing job she'd ever faced—certainly _much _bigger than healing a bruise or fixing one of Stan's paper cuts—and while she didn't feel _completely _drained, she felt just a little . . . _aloof. _As if she'd lost track of more time than she'd originally thought.

_It couldn't have _possibly _taken more than thirty minutes, but it seems like so much longer than that, _she thought stressfully, looking into the painted marmalade sky. The sun was to her back, beating the last of its dying, ineffectual heat on her neck, but it had seemed so much higher before. Before she'd walked through the doors of that hospital, with the intention of breaking a very important promise.

_It's like I've lost two hours. I thought there was a possibility I could be back by sunset, but . . ._

But no. Looking at the way things were, getting back to her house before the sun fell completely was _impossible_. She'd just crossed the street into the town square, and the Testaburger residence was at least a thirty minute walk away. Her parents could retrieve her for dinner anywhere from six to nine, but the mean hour was usually seven. Looking at that sun? It'd be _at least _seven-thirty by the time she was walking in the door.

_I should have just kept my promise. I should have just stayed home, _She thought angrily, aware that she was walking a little faster. Tears were blurring her vision, now, making it impossible to see anything clearly besides the very tip of her own nose. But that was okay. Sometimes she thought she knew the old, crack-topped streets better than the back of her hand.

_I should have just listened to Stan. When he hears that I'm missing . . . he'll be heartbroken. _

She sighed. A sunken, heavy feeling took form in the center of her chest, crushing her lungs with what could only be guilt and sorrow.

She continued her slow, melancholy walk down the sidewalk, shuffling her feet through the melted puddles and watching the ground the whole way. She had an idea that _this _was the reason why the man was able to get so close; because were she not scared and guilty, and instead at the tip-top of her game, she would have heard the footsteps _long _before the hand fell on her shoulder. But she didn't. And that's why, when things crumbled out from beneath her and spilled her into a chute destined to exit in hell, all her worry and guilt suddenly seemed but a flickering light on the horizon.

"Going somewhere, little lady?"

The hand clamped hard on the ridge of her shoulder, soft enough to be painless and yet solid enough to be real. The long fingernails stabbed menacingly into her skin and she instinctively screamed-- in a high, hysterical way that tore the lining of her throat into ribbons. The way of the truly startled.

Her immediate instinct beyond the fear—which was _definitely _there and raging, making her heart suddenly leap to a level that seemed scientifically impossible—was to whirl around on whoever had grabbed her. It was a little hard to do, as the hand on her shoulder seemed to be resisting the action . . . but in the strange wave of power that always comes from sudden scares like these, his grip snapped as easily as a daisy stem.

_A joke, _she thought as she turned, aware even as she thought it that the likelihood was slim. Because while things like that happened in movies, this was _reality . . . _and here, she doubted people got so lucky.

_Please, let this be a joke. Let me turn around, and see Stan or Dad or--_

No. It was _not _Stan. It was _not _her Dad. When she finally made it around and looked up at the grabber, suspense making her movements slow and heavy as if moving through wet sand, It made her breath catch in her throat to realize the man didn't look _human _at _all._ Maybe in some aspects of the word. Maybe in the fact that he had the _form _of a person, but that didn't seem to matter much behind that face . . . because it was terrible. _Reptilian. _Evil in every sense of the word; so much so that, for a moment, she believed she were actually staring at the Devil.

Her lungs deflated in her chest. She felt everything grow stiff and cold with terror, petrifying her to the spot like a powerfully rooted tree.

_One of them, _She thought instantly, not knowing exactly where this information came from. But it didn't matter, did it? It didn't matter at all, because it was invariably _true. _She _knew _it. Knew it as clearly as the sudden, real chance that she just might not get out of this alive.

_One of the guys that put Stan in the hospital. One of the guys that tried to kill Butters . . ._

_And that Stan warned would try to kill me._

Her heart seized painfully in her chest. At her silence—and lack of screams, surprisingly enough to Wendy-- the sharp-faced man chuckled in a slow, tinny way that made little shocks of unpleasantness wind through her brain. Ropes of drool, strung across his inhuman teeth like bald strings of Christmas tinsel, broke and squelched behind his lips.

"Aah. A quiet one, are you? The kind that goes without a fuss?" He asked softly, in a high voice that Wendy's very own boyfriend would have referred to as 'bitchy' were he there beside her. And in the very forefront of her mind, raging higher than anything else, were the wishes that he _was _right there beside her, now . . . not only for protection and comfort, but also so she could tell him she was sorry. Sorry for breaking his promise, for one thing; but, more than anything else, being _stupid _enough about it to ignore his warnings.

"That's okay, love. Silence is golden. I _hate _screamers. They always end up losing their tongue."

The voice was flat and desperately one-dimensional, but Wendy picked up on the messages buried within it good enough. He could try to fool her all he wanted, but you didn't just use that tone for nothing. She'd heard it before. Mostly in movies . . . but right now, there was nothing theatrical about it.

_He's going to do something awful to me, _She thought hysterically, still looking up into his reptilian face. He was wearing some strange type of sunglasses, but she could tell even behind the glint of the sunset that his eyes were probably a deep, sinister hazel . . . Probably as close to a lizard's as they could get to still remain _vaguely _human.

_He's going to _kill _me, and if that's not bad enough . . . the last thing I'll see is his face. _His _face._

Not her mother's face. Not her father's face. Not Stan's face, not any of her friends' faces . . .

But _his._

This revelation alone was enough to make her feel like crying. Before she could finish this train of thought—which would surely have ended in tears, no matter _what _her situation—the grip on her shoulder tightened a bit, and the man stepped toward her. She happened to look toward his inner wrist as he did this, and noticed something sharp resting against the white, ghostly shade of his skin . . . something sharp and reflective, bouncing harsh rays of sunlight back into her eyes.

"Now, this doesn't have to be long, little missy," The man said in a low, rumbling tenor, stepping toward her just a tad more. He raised his wrist and the sharp thing slid just a little bit more out of the sleeve, revealing to Wendy something she'd suspected since the very beginning . . . a _weapon. _Most likely some sort of knife.

"If you cooperate and let me do what I was told to do, I'll make it quick and painless."

The blade slid just a little longer out of his sleeve, coming to rest at its final spot in the very middle of his palm. _Quick and painless? _She had time to think, tasting her heart as it began beating at the very base of her throat. It was a strange feeling, one she didn't even think was _possible . . . _but it seemed appropriate, when dealing with this amount of terror. When dealing with an amount of terror this _unreal._

'_Quick and Painless'? Can _anything _having to do with that knife be . . ._

She was startled out of this daydream when the man began to raise the blade to a point just above his shoulder, sending those rays of fading sun flashing like spotlights. She took in a long, startled gasp, knowing in her heart what was going to happen before her mind was entirely sure . . . but not able to do anything because of the damned _fear. _In all the old monster movies, entire towns fled for cover when the giant tarantula scuttled over the New York City skyline. What those second-rate actors didn't know was that, when gripped by true terror, running was the _last _thing that struck the periled mind.

_One swing, _She thought miserably, swallowing through a mouth as dry as cotton. Feeling tears burning brightly behind her eyeballs, not sure if they sprang out of anger or lost hope.

_One fast, well- aimed swing. And I'm done for._

The man holding her shoulder seemed to pick up on her thoughts. He sneered down at her from behind those dark glasses, letting go a chuckle that sent a sharp chill down her spine.

"_That's _it. Good girl. Stand _nice and still _for me."

The knife began descending upon her, a fast that danced on the borders of becoming a blur. For one static, painfully long second she could only stare at the coming pendulum of death, wondering somewhere in the back of her mind what it would feel like to have cold steel running through her neck . . . but, luckily for her, she didn't stick around long enough to find out.

She felt a word inflate her chest. She wasn't sure what that word would be until came bursting out of her lips, but she was glad for it just the same; because it broke the strange paralysis her fear had stiffened over her.

"No!"

Her body acted as if with a mind of its own. One second she was standing beneath his hand, looking up at the hypnotizing blade that was sure to deliver her death . . . and the next she was ducking out from underneath it, taking advantage of the concentration he'd diverted to deliver her final blow. She shrugged it off as easily as if it were a leaf gently fallen off her back, and just before the blade swished musically through the place that should have been her carotid artery she was off, dashing madly away from her attacker in the direction she had come.

In the _wrong _direction.

_Back? Back toward the hospital? What the hell am I doing? _She thought frantically, feeling the stored tears break free as she began running for her life. Unfortunately, she didn't have much time to think this decision through . . . because as soon as she was running, the man was chasing, and turning around was faintly disguised _death wish._

"_Bitch!" _He screamed angrily, from a location _much _too close behind her. She felt a suspicious puff of air at her back, an excruciatingly painful tug as stray hairs were caught and ruthlessly plucked out by the roots; and then the malicious _clomp _of loafers behind her on the pavement, taking up a chase that she was _sure _to lose.

"Come back here, you little bitch! You're only making it worse on yourself!"

_Yeah. Yeah, I know, _She thought sadly, thinking past the cold patches on her cheeks where her tears had spread and frozen. She watched her feet as they pounded on the ground over and over again through the varied piles of slush and frozen dirt, at a rapidity that would soon have her panting. It would keep her ahead of him for now, yes . . . but for how long?

_Not long enough. I was stupid for coming here; stupid for ignoring the promise I made to Stan. I saw what happened to Butters, saw the casts on Kyle's wrists . . . but I ignored them. I ignored them, and now I'm going to--_

There was another swipe at the back of her collar, another series of prickling pains as the fist closed on stray, flyaway hairs. At feeling this she let out a small, tortured scream, the sort of thing one utters when pleading to a being that _absolutely cannot be reasoned with . . . _and sped up a little, to a pace that would only be tolerable for a few seconds. Fast runner as she was, she had never been an athletic girl. She wouldn't be able to maintain this pace forever . . . Probably not even long enough to really make a difference.

It was for this reason that, when she looked up the sidewalk in front of her and saw Butters Stotch standing about five yards away, it was relief and not dismay that filled her frantic mind.

_Butters? Wait, how the hell did he—_She began to think at first, as she madly swiped gathering tears away to look at the phantom form. She was, of course, understandably floored at his unexpected presence there . . .but as she grew ever closer, letting the wind dry and cure the frigid wetness on her cheeks, she could see that the form of her familiar classmate was rustled and clad in only a thin hospital gown. Aah. So an escapee, was he? Concerned enough to break out and follow her after all?

_Bless him, _Wendy thought passionately, aware that this was one of the only times she'd ever invoked religion in times of stress. Fresh tears welled and clouded up her vision, but she saw as clearly as if they weren't there at all. _He actually followed me out . . . He actually listened to his feelings and followed me out, oh, bless him--_

"Wendy?" She heard him ask innocently from his place down at the end of the street. The wind rushing by her ears impeded her comprehension just a bit, but the meaning was just the same . .. Because the word his lips formed was unmistakable. The word, _and_ the expression that crossed his face when he must have seen the man keeping up chase behind her. The expression of pure, shocked terror. The sudden paleness to his face.

"Wh-What's goin' on?"

Wendy tried to cry out to him immediately, but found it hard to catch her breath. In the end she settled on simply waving a friendly arm, unwilling to waste any much needed stamina. Close to The Human Force-Field--and her only salvation, if you wanted to be proper about it--as she was, she didn't want to chance being snagged at the last minute. Such a thing would be both useless _and _frustrating.

When she got close enough to Butters that wasting her breath through speech wouldn't matter, she was ashamed to hear her voice come out wheezy and barely audible. She was also, for reasons unknown by her, ashamed to find that she was sobbing.

"Butters!" She pleaded, hearing that steady _clomp _of loafers behind her like second hands on a clock to her death. She thought that, if she had to hear it a minute longer—and any _closer—_she just might go mad.

"Butters, help me! He's trying to—"

_Kill me, _She meant to say, _He's trying to _kill _me. _However, before the words could make their way completely out of her mouth she had reached Butters' place on the sidewalk and thrown her arms dramatically around his neck. She hadn't known she was going to do it until she had, and she knew a part of her deep down inside would be slightly humiliated later on . . . but there could have been worse things. Worse _people. _For example, judging by the way her luck had gone lately, it wouldn't have surprised her if it had been _Eric Cartman _she'd run into on the street.

She tucked her head down into Butters' starchy gown, feeling the rough, cheaply-made fabric scratch painfully against her face. She did this not to take comfort in his warmth, as she might have if it had been _Stan_ standing gallantly at the deserted corner of that street . . . but simply as a way to keep her eyes off that _thing. _

Off that _monster. _

"You have to help me, Butters! He has a knife!"

Butters began stuttering like a bad record player above her, the bottom of his chin lightly tapping her head with each failed word. The sound struck her as a little bit humorous, and she might have taken the notion to let go a little laugh . . . but the man's loafers were still advancing toward them on the pavement. Advancing ever faster, as if excitement had given him a new motivator.

"You've done it now, you little bitch!" He hissed ecstatically, his voice shaky and sadistic with excitement. She could hear wet, disgusting little hisses between his teeth as he breathed, reminding her unpleasantly of his sharp-toothed, drool-roped sneer of before. "Tried to get away and only led me to another. What a stupid, _stupid _little bitch you are."

"Butters! Put up your force field!" She demanded, ignoring whatever tasteless insults the bastard gaining on them had imposed. Now that she was here, wrapped around Butters and feeling like she just might have a chance again, getting herself back under control had become disgustingly easy. All of that petrified, pathetic fear had been left at the back burner, for now. Perhaps better than that, so had those God-forsaken sobs.

And as she listened to Butters stuttering above her, his thoughts lingering on a word but not quite able to bring it out, she decided that it couldn't have happened at a better time. Because as stunned as her relief had made him, his blatant inability to react had brought her fire back.

"Come on, Butters, we don't have much time!" She said loudly, taking her arms from around his neck and clutching his gown's lapels. She thought this was probably a smart choice; at the breaking of the hug, he seemed to regain just a little of his composure.

"Put up your force field! Put it up, _now!_"

***********************************************************************

"Stan, wait! Where the hell are you going?" Kyle shouted for probably the fiftieth time that evening, his words now coming out at barely more than a wheeze. He felt a little like a broken record by then, and more useless than a piece of water-dissolving toilet paper . . .but watching his best friend running down the street ahead of him, working those trained quarterback's legs like no tomorrow, he knew that simply letting him go would be a mistake. How he knew, he wasn't sure . . . he just _did._

There wasn't much behind this decision except for one little fact. And while it really wasn't that _big _of a fact, it was still enough to bring suspicion to Kyle's mind . . . but then again, these days, there wasn't much that_ didn't. _

_He woke up saying 'Wendy'. He left his _room _saying 'Wendy'. He ran out the freaking _frontdoor _saying 'Wendy', _He pondered deeply, giving a little gasp as he was forced to hurdle a water-filled crater in the sidewalk. Though it was unexpected and nearly made him sprang his ankle, he and all the other children could equate with something that brought warmth to their hearts . . . Because what season of the year _ever _brought puddles in Colorado besides the best of them all?

_He woke up saying these things, and yet this isn't the way to her house. I don't know where he's going . . . I don't know where _we're _going . . . but I don't think that—_

"Kyle, you fucking asshole! How many times do I have to tell you to wait up?"

_Oh, _great_. He's still back there. I thought I'd lost his whiny ass for good._

In the process of his hard, relentless breathing, he managed to crane his neck and look back at the fatass. And, lo and behold, there he was . . .and he was closer than he'd expected him to be. He had to give him props, for that. As long as they'd been running it was surprising he hadn't passed out somewhere on the side of the road.

_So there's another way this thing has been good for all of us. Fatass is in better shape than he's ever been in his life, _he thought grimly, grunting as he was forced to avoid another treacherous puddle of slush.

"Just shut up, Cartman! I don't know where the hell he's going. I can't lose him!" He shouted behind his back, aware that his voice was probably lost in the wind. It was raging pretty good, now, but wasn't that appropriate for something like this? Wasn't it appropriate for every little thing to be ridiculously amplified, to a point of unending nuisance?

"He's not in his right mind, right now. He could be heading for the freaking bridge to take a dive, for all I fucking know, and he might just end up—"

"Jesus Christ, Kyle, are you deaf? He said he was looking for Wendy. _Wendy."_

"Yeah, I know, but—"

Cartman groaned out a large, exaggerated scoff. In what must have been a terrific effort he lunged forward, just enough that Kyle could see his finger jutting just in the reach of his peripheral vision.

_Pointing._

"_Right in front of you, dumbass! Look in front of you!" _Cartman roared, his voice edgy and unstable with emotion. Kyle couldn't be sure what that emotion was, but a part deep down inside of him dared to call it worry. Probably just blind, wishful thinking. _"On the street corner! With Butters!"_

_Butters? _Kyle thought stupidly, the thought striking his mind before he could bother to look where Cartman had pointed. _What the hell do you mean, _Butters? _Isn't he in the hospital waiting to die?_

His head snapped up to look just beyond Stan, and he instantly saw what Cartman was pointing at. It was what Stan had been going for all along, apparently, what he had known but was too hysterical to tell them . . . because before Kyle could even suck in a breath to warn, before he could even _think _to suck in a breath to warn, his best friend was gone like a blaze toward the scene.

It was Wendy, of course. Wendy, and _Butters, _who looked small and painfully feeble in that long, billowing hospital gown. The same Butters that had been nearly killed on Friday night. The same Butters that had, miraculously, woken up just long enough to ask about Stan. His time after that had been smothered with hell.

And now somehow he was standing next to Wendy in the fading gleam of the sunlight, blanch white with terror and swaying like a daisy in the breeze. She had an arm around him, but Kyle had a distinct feeling that was the only reason he was still standing . . . because he had never, save for nursing Stan's shell of a body, seen a face so unnaturally white. It was an impossible shade. _Impossible, _unless said person were in the last stages of that glorious thing they call _cardiac arrest._

It was when he saw the force field shimmering around them that he finally understood. It was barely visible save for as a faint disturbance in the air, but to his trained eye it was _all _too obvious. What else could have caused his face to pale that way? Caused his body to sway?

_Damn it, Butters, what the hell? You keep draining yourself this way and you'll do nothing but dig an early grave, _Kyle thought, still confused beyond reason. Confused mostly about how Butters had gotten out of the hospital, of course, and maybe a little about how he was _standing . . . _but also about that force field. About what it was _for._

It was Stan that answered that question for him.

"Son of a bitch!" He screamed from far in front of him. Kyle looked up at the scream and saw that Stan was making his way toward the far side of the sidewalk, where a tall, black suited man stood by the outer edge of the force field like some sort of armed guard. And armed he certainly was, as there was something glittering in his hand. . . Something metal and _obviously _sharp, by the tender way his own fingers curled around it.

Kyle felt an instant, instinctual stab of fear. He might have been able to fight past this and continue after Stan, whether his wits were in the right place or not, but there was no denying where his best friend was going, now. No denying at all, unless one wanted to propose he would _ignore _the man who was, for whatever reason, currently trying to butcher his girlfriend. _Another one. _Another _one, _He thought helplessly, feeling a forceful rush of wind as Cartman reached and finally surpassed him. He was touched to see the fatass not only run as past him, but actually _keep _running, as if trying to cover Stan. _Was _this his actual intention? Kyle wasn't sure. Only that it would be damned relieving.

_We can kill as many of them as we want to, but more just keep coming back. It's never going to stop. Never. Going. To. Stop._

"Go to hell!"

He heard Stan give an angered, powerful grunt. Accompanying this was a wide swing of his arm, the sort of thing Kyle had witnessed kill or maim several living things . . . and then the man in the black suit was swept elegantly off his feet, as flawlessly as if performing a professional ballet act. As far as Kyle could tell, he didn't even have time to scream. His pirouette ended early with a not-so-elegant crash into the brick building behind him, a little business Kyle had known his whole life to be called 'Cashew's Lawn and Feed'.

Just like that, his life was over.

A rain of fresh gore glittered in the sunlight, but Kyle looked away. Even though it was something he was fairly used to by now he hadn't eaten all day, and puking his stomach up did _not _seem like an attractive option. Not when he was already tired as hell, and on the fringes of a mental breakdown, at least. Another little nuisance in his life would _surely _beenough to put him over.

"Stan!" he heard Butters wail exultingly, his shaky voice high and disbelieving in the near-summer breeze. There was a little change in the frequency of the air as he let down the force field, something just strong enough to set off a cluster of little pops in the depths of Kyle's ears . . . and then nothing but the sound of Butters' voice, normally annoying but now, after his previous near-death, strangely sweet.

"You saved us, Stan! You saved both of our lives!" He shouted happily, running from Wendy's side and approaching the strangely unemotional Stan. Stan began to turn slowly around at Butters' address of him, and for one sick moment of fear Kyle envisioned he'd be as wild as he'd been coming . . . but, not surprisingly, that mood seemed to have finally mellowed. He was smiling, now. Smiling, as if all that weight had been miraculously lifted and thrown to the stars.

And, when you really analyzed it, it had. Because Wendy was sitting on the sidewalk in front of them, curled into a pale, trembling little ball. She seemed a little shaken, and perhaps just a little bit worse for wear . . . but unharmed. Thankfully, _luckily, _unharmed.

Kyle saw Stan shoot a smile at her. Luckily Butters had noticed the wonders of Eric Cartman by now, and was bee-bopping off to go issue him a 'thank you' for whatever help he believed he'd provided. . . and Stan was able to walk pressingly toward her, in long, brisk strides that did little to hide his distress.

"Wendy? Wendy, are you okay?"

Kyle looked up just in time to see Stan stumbling toward the curled-up, trembling form of his girlfriend, a shakiness to his walk that said he was _beyond _ready to lay down the day. It saddened him a little to see Stan like this, because he still wasn't clear on what horrible things the boy been through . . . but while it was sad, and just a _little _pathetic, Kyle couldn't help but feel relief take him over in a wave.

Because where he hadn't been before, he was _Stan _again. It was something in the way he walked. Something in the way his eyes were _alive _again, shining beautifully in the last of the afternoon light.

But most of all, it was something in the way he looked at _Wendy. _It was the way he'd always looked at her before, as if everything beautiful in life were right there on her face . . . but now, added to this gentle sort of affection like the perfect brush-stroke to a dull painting, was a subdued little twist of pure, unwavering _relief._

He flounced down next to her, grimacing as his knees connected with the harsh surface of the pavement. Kyle couldn't help but smile at the look that crossed Wendy's face, smile and fight back an unwanted gush of tears . . . because something about it was just _beautiful. _Just _moving._

_Like she never thought she'd see him again, _He thought, ashamed to find that it was necessary to dust gathering water from his eyes.

"Are you okay, Wendy? Did you get hurt?" Stan asked gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. Kyle had to strain to hear his voice through the wind, and felt a little nosy that he even _bothered . . . _but it was like something unbelievingly violent. He just couldn't keep his eyes away.

"Did I get here too late?"

Wendy continued to stare at him for a moment, a glassy look in her eyes that said she didn't believe he was _real. _After a moment of this—a long, agonizing moment in which Kyle thought he might have to turn away, to keep his head on properly—the glaze in her eyes faded and she smiled, brightening the sallow shadows that had formed over her face.

"No. You didn't," She said softly, placing her hand over his. She squeezed a little, her fingers trembling just a tad with the pressure, and leaned slightly toward him. "You were just in time."

"So you're not hurt? He didn't . . ."

Wendy's smile widened. She gently brushed his hand off her shoulder and rose up to her knees, wincing a little just as Stan had done.

"No, Stan. Everything's fine," She said happily, leaning into him and draping her arms tiredly around his neck. Even from his short distance away Kyle could see his best friend's shoulders jump as if affected by some random twinge of electricity, and had to choke back a laugh that would have been painfully inappropriate.

_Ah, boy. Some things never change._

After a moment of simply sitting there in her arms, frozen and staring as if he wasn't sure what to do, Kyle was amused to see Stan bring his arms up and place them softly on her back. He leaned his head down against her and laid his face gently against her shoulder, in an exasperated, relieved way that Kyle was _sure _came with tears. It was when Stan spoke that he knew this for certain. His voice came out choked, ragged and pitifully broken.

"You have no idea how this feels. I thought . . . I thought you were already—"

His speech paused there. Kyle did not think it was meant to continue, but he could never know for sure . . . because at the beginnings of that tender, long-needed hug, he had already begun to turn away. There were some things, no matter _how _problematic, that just weren't meant for a best friend's eyes.

Intimate moments with a certain special girl, no matter _how _small, fell well under that category.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Okay, so the ending. A lot of you are probably wondering about that . . . and why It was so, _abrupt. _To tell you the truth I can't give a straight answer myself, other than to tell you that it just felt _right. _Crazy? I don't know. I guess that's up to you guys.

And about the Wendy hugging Butters scene, let me just tell you I was cracking up so hard I could barely write it. It was literally thrown in at the last minute, but I _LOVE _the way it came out . . .and I know it seems a little OOC, but shoot me. It was cute. *smile*

Okay, so next time? Well, there's only one thing I know for sure . . . that Stan has some stories to tell. _And _some secrets. That poor kid can never catch a break, can he? And Kyle . .. will he _ever_ catch a rest?

All right, see you guys next time! I stayed up WAY too late to get this chapter up for you guys, and I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Update will probably be in about two weeks, but I'm not going to promise anything—not if I want to give you a quality, well-written story, that is.

Peace!

-Aub


	10. Loyalty

Hey, guys! It's me again, Aub! I'll bet you weren't expecting to see me again so soon, were you? Ha ha . . . I'm smooth.

Okay, so before you get confused, I'm going to tell you that this chapter opens on the next day. Why? Well, it will all be explained in the chapter, but I'll give you a little hint before you freak out. FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT. There, I said it. Gay, I know . . . But detail happens to be one of the things I like, so detail you shall have. It just makes the story flow so much better that way.

Okay, so last time? Well, Stan saved Wendy, thank God. Butters followed her out of the hospital and just managed to protect her, but this has of course raised some questions in Kyle's mind on how this was possible . . . Questions that were answered, of course, with _very _negative results. What results, you ask? Well, those you will now see, in one of those painful little avenues we writers like to call _flashback. _I hope you enjoy. *smile*

Okay, so enough jabbering. While I'm at it I'd like to officially tell you that it's down to the wire, now-- the story is officially past the half way point. Or, at least, I _think. _I'm pretty sure. Nobody can tell what the future holds.

But here's chapter ten for you: Loyalty!

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Ch.10: Loyalty

It couldn't have been any later than seven o' clock in the morning when Kyle woke up to the smell of turkey-bacon. It entered his mind through a dream that he could no longer remember, taking his heavy mind and lifting it to the sky like a birthday balloon stolen by the wind . . . And for once in what felt like light years, bringing him back to a body that felt well-rested and _whole._

Snapped from the dream as he was-- which had been something about school, he was sure; part of the 'Monday Morning Plagues' as he so much liked to called them-- he remained in bed with eyes softly closed, wound so tightly in a network of blankets that they clung to his body like a second skin. There was something invigorating about that feeling. About being _well-rested. _In all the years he'd taken it for granted, he'd never realized something so common could feel so _good _when it was truly needed.

_And bacon, _He thought sluggishly, smiling a little through the cover of spare sleep and foggy, weary laziness. _Nothing can go wrong to the smell of fresh bacon._

He could hear the pan sizzling from downstairs, the noise wafting pleasantly through what was surely a little crack in his door. Even without his eyes opened, he would have known this for certain-- because even though his mother had a tendency to be a little overprotective, he didn't blame her for peeking in after the state she had found him in last night. He'd been dirty. Wet. _Tired. _Most certainly not the way she would have expected him to look, especially after taking this alleged 'nap'. He had to admit he'd surprised himself, too. He'd chanced one look down at himself after Cartman brought him back, saw the smudges of mud or what could have been dried blood streaked across his chest, and promptly decided it would be better if he looked away.

When his mother had opened the door to wake him, he could tell she didn't want to look, either. Whether this was out of confusion or reluctance to cause a confrontation, he'd _never _know . . . Only that her face had quickly flushed a ghostly white, and her hand had begun to tremble ever so lightly on the door knob.

" . . . Kyle? It's time for dinner, bubie. Are you hungry?" Her eyes darted over his body from top to bottom, taking in his mussed clothes. His wind-stung face. His hair, which had squelched from beneath his partially dislodged hat like a gory explosion.

A part of Kyle had wanted to answer _no, _to this. _No, _so he could try to go to sleep and forget whatever crazy things he'd just witnessed in Stan's bedroom, sitting next to a boy who's leg should have looked like a piece of tenderized meat but didn't and a fat piece of shit that _should _have had a broken nose but didn't because . . .

_Because she_ _touched him. Because Wendy touched him._

This thought had brought a cold, angered chill to his spine. He turned away from these feelings promptly, not sure he was willing to take them on right now. Not sure he was in the right _condition. _Thinking back on it now, he had actually been in better condition to deal with it than he thought he'd been. Because _now,_ the thought made him want to _scream._

"Yeah, sure, mom. I'm . . . starving," He had responded absently. Flatly. As if he wasn't really there, and wasn't interested in coming back.

She had paused a moment, uncharacteristically . . . Then said, "Are you sure, Bubie? You're looking just a little bit . . . Under the weather."

Kyle had nodded. His head had felt both heavy and light, as if attached on ball bearings. "Yes."

After his low, almost guttural response she had begun moving toward him, her shoes rasping against the carpet as she moved to presumably check his head for fever. But Kyle had done her one better, on this; before she could get close enough even for him to get a start at smelling her perfume cloud, he was off the bed and heading off behind her. Even in the state he had been in, that state that was a melancholy mixture of exhaustion and mental fatigue, he had been aware that his feet moved much too slow. That he walked at a slow, stiff limp, fighting to keep mobility past joints that had been filled with broken glass.

And as he'd hunched over his plate with his family that night, staring at his reflection in a bowl of steaming navy bean soup, it had been hard to keep from feeling the beating. His eyelids wouldn't stay open, but the thoughts were alive enough and sequenced through his head in a cycle. Stan. Butters. Black-suited man. Wendy.

Wendy touching Cartman. Cartman pulling his hands away from his nose, his face beginning to brighten with dawning wonder.

_I've been able to do it for a while, now. And I've been getting better at it. Better every--_

The sound of his chair scooting musically across the linoleum created a temporary block in the gentle wave of dinner conversation. He turned away from his bowl, sure that he had never felt less hungry in his _life,_ and climbed out of his chair.

"Thank you for dinner, mom. I'm finished. I'm going to bed."

Both of his parents' heads snapped up to regard him at once, their confused gazes like lasers at his back. It made him feel just slightly terrible, knowing how _worried _they probably were . . . But why try to act normal when he felt horrible? It was true that they could never know the _origins _of his feelings, but at least they could know enough to leave him alone. To leave him alone, and let him _think._

After this initial moment of stunned silence, his mother quietly cleared her throat. It made razor blades of irritation travel up his spine, because after a lifetime of being her son, Kyle knew very well what the sound meant. That she was ready for _argument._

" . . . Bubie, don't you think you should sit down and eat a little more? You barely touched a thing."

"No, ma. I'm fine. I just don't have much of an appetite."

He made it to the third stair before the expected argument came. In a way, this impressed him; on a good day, his mom had been known to have her bitching out before he'd even moved to mount the _first_ one.

"Come here, Kyle," She said strictly, her voice beginning to cloud like a coming storm. It was the way it often sounded on the rare occasions he got a mediocre grade on a test or did something naughty; the way that informed him she meant _business. _"You've been acting strange all weekend, and I think it's time you tell me why. You're not yourself. You seem like a completely different child."

Kyle, who had froze in his ascension to listen to her bitch, slowly began to continue climbing up to his room. He could sense the way his mother probably felt at this-- hurt, crossed with immeasurable _rage--_ but he was just so _tired. _So _confused. _It was hard to care.

"I'm okay, mom. _Really," _He said sluggishly, continuing up the stairs. Each individual step seemed to take an unusual amount of juice out of him, forcing him to clutch the hand-rail until his knuckles turned white just to keep from tumbling backwards. "I just need sleep. The nap, it . . . It wasn't enough."

"Kyle!" His mother crowed, her voice loud and shrill with shock. "Kyle, _this instant!"_

"Good night, mom. Good night, dad."

After finally reaching his room-- a feat that seemed to have taken _forever--_ Kyle had closed the door behind him and promptly launched himself onto his bed. Once there he'd flounced onto his stomach and pressed his eyes into his forearms, stretching out his legs as far as they would go and kicking his shoes off behind him. His mind was immediately high jacked by _thoughts, _the very things he'd been trying hideously hard to avoid these past few hours. However, somewhat fortunately, his exhaustion got the better of him.

He fell asleep.

If his mother ever came in the room to reprimand him for his behavior, he didn't remember it. Only waking up about five groggy hours later, with the crotch part of his trousers digging painfully into his groin. He'd simply changed into pajamas and hopped promptly back into bed, falling asleep the second time just as easily as the first.

And now here he was, nestled up in the blankets after what felt like the best sleep in his life. Waking up for school with the aroma of sizzling turkey-bacon invading his nostrils-- an unspoken olive branch, he hoped-- and the wishes that, today, everything would turn out all right. The simple way he'd _woken up _seemed to promise that for him; but was that enough to go by? Because after this, there was still _school. _And after _that . . ._

_Recess, _He thought exasperatedly, through dread so great that it forced out a groan. He drew his pillow from beneath his face and pulled it over his head, hoping it would keep out the realities of morning for just a little while longer.

_He said meet up at recess, and I'll explain farther. Meet up at recess, and I'll tell you what _other _things I've hidden from you for--_

"Kyle! Time to get ready for school!"

Beneath the pillow, his mother's voice sounded like it possibly could have come from downstairs. But when she knocked on the doorframe, those terrible bangle-weighted bracelets clanking like marbles against the side of a bottle, he knew for sure where she was. _Right there. _Looking in on him from the doorframe with her apron tied around her waist in an old-fashioned manner, a sorrowful smile on her face that seemed to be hoping for his compliance. For his _recovery_. He rarely ever acted toward her in the way he had last night, and he knew it was probably eating at her. A little sad, yes, but mostly irritating.

When he didn't respond, he heard her houseshoes hush against the carpet as she walked to his bedside. Shortly following this was a blot of light against his closed eyelids as she made her way over and lifted the pillow, revealing his face to the harsh picture of reality. He opened his eyes, but what he really wanted was to close them harder. To _fall back asleep._

Blinking as if through eyes filled with Vasoline, he mumbled, "Okay. I'm awake. I'll be down in a second."

He heard his mother give a short, worried little scoff, and then felt a heavy warmth in the center of his forehead as she laid her hand on his brow. This made him slightly irritated, but he held still for her just the same, if only to grant her peace of mind. If only to make her stop thinking he was _suicidal _or something.

After a moment she said, "You're not running a fever, but I still don't like the way you look. Why don't you just stay home today? I'll bring your breakfast up to you in bed, and you can rest."

Surprisingly, Kyle found himself pausing to consider this option. Stay home? Stay home and not _only _get a couple of hours more sleep, but _also _avoid that predestined talk beneath the jungle gym? That horrific little talk that would likely ruin his entire day, and many more after?

_That does sound nice, but I can't do that, _He thought earnestly, feeling his heart sink like a stone inside his chest. _I may not be happy with him, but he's still my best friend. And he needs me now more than ever._

Sure, his absence from their conversation beneath the jungle gym wouldn't be a _huge _misstep; after all, It wasn't like Stan didn't have his phone number. It wasn't like he couldn't just call him up and tell him everything that he had to say, without the dramatic effects of Cartman's indignant snorting or Wendy's soft, gentle arguments as she defended Stan's excuses. _He didn't mean to lie to you, _She'd say _countless _times, with her wrists crossed gently across her knees and her deep brown doe's eyes catching his like fly traps. _Everything he did was done in your best interest, and can you imagine how it must have felt to carry that sort of weight alone? _

_But everything _wasn't _done in my best interest, now was it? _Kyle thought angrily, beginning to pull himself weakly up into the sitting position. His mother put a hand to his back to help him, but she might as well have not even been in the room. _It was done in _your _best interest, wasn't it, Wendy? _Your _best interest, while people lay hurt that didn't _have _to be and we were all scared out of our fucking--_

"Kyle, bubie, where are you going? Aren't you going to stay here and rest?"

Kyle, who had just finished wrestling himself from the nest of blankets, thumped to the floor below him. He began walking past her toward the rectangle of light that marked his open bedroom door, suddenly ready to feel that bacon crunch in his mouth. Suddenly ready to gulp back that orange juice with a maniac fervor, and maybe even a sip of coffee or two if his mother was feeling overly generous.

"I can't stay here, Mom. I'll go _crazy. _I need to see my friends," He said in passing as he left the dreary darkness of his room, squinting slightly at the pass from dimness to light. He heard his mother give a grunt of surprise behind him, and begin to follow . . . But she said not a word.

When he finally reached the table, stomach groaning as violently as a dying man in the last stages of the fact, he didn't think he'd be able to get it down fast enough. If simply smelling the food hadn't been enough, seeing it in front of him was about ten times worse . . . And before he knew it he was scarfing it down, bits of bacon tumbling down his throat before his butt had even touched the wooden seat.

Ike stared at him from his high chair, his big black eyes blinking with a mixture of concern and confusion. It hurt Kyle a little to see that even his _little brother _was picking up on his change in behavior, and the thought briefly crossed his mind to brighten up his boots a little, even if it _was _fake . . . But he quickly determined that it was impossible. The sparks just wouldn't light.

"Ess-plode?" Ike asked curiously, frantically swatting his toast with the round part of his spoon. "Ess-plode? In the twee?"

_Yeah, dude. You have no idea, _Kyle felt like saying. There was more than one meaning to that answer; because, as much as his hands could cut a crater through tree bark, _words _could have the power to explode, too. Words like what he'd heard yesterday, sitting in a familiar room that had grown to become claustrophobic with tension.

Before he could say this, he heard his mother from the living room. Her voice was hushed and furtive, as if she didn't want him to hear . . . But no matter _how _quiet she kept it, he could always tell when she was talking about him. Mainly by the irritated sound of his father, rustling his morning paper as he wasinterrupted yet _again_ by one of his children's 'serious issues'. Also by the way his mother's tone grew-- high and wavering, as if close to tears.

"I just don't know _what's_ come over our boy lately, Gerald. He just isn't himself. He's staying so tired all the time, and I can't get him to open up to me no matter what I do . . ."

These were the only words he picked up out of the conversation. Surprisingly, they were the only ones he _cared _to. While his mother's rising concern for him was in _no _way unexpected, there were other things here that _were. _Things like his best friend lying to him, for one thing. Or, if not exactly lying_, omitting certain truths. _All in the name of _her. _All in the name of someone he hadn't known _half _as well as Kyle until about a year-and-a-half-ago, when he suddenly couldn't get enough of her.

They always said in the old proverbs that love was very complicated business. Well, here it was now, complicating things; because it had Stanley Randall Marsh by the short and curlies, and there were no indications of it ever letting go. It had caused a boy that would normally do anything for anybody to betray his best friends. To keep someone, someone as innocent as _Butters, _in torturous pain for two nights all because of a selfish, needy whim.

_But wait, _some part of him deep inside tried to say. This part of him had been absent last night and all of this morning, but he was very glad to see it back. _Wait a minute. Maybe I should look at it from the opposite side. From _Stan's _side. Maybe then it wouldn't seem so horrible._

He was about to go through the process of doing this, of mapping everything out meticulously in his head, when he was acquainted by a sudden splash of wetness on his cheek. He looked up at the angle it had come from, not exactly sure _what _he was expecting to see . . . And saw Ike sitting there with a shit-poke smile on his face, holding a spoon that he had obviously used to fling something wet on Kyle's cheek. Whether it was orange juice or slobber, Kyle would never know. Only that it had awakened him from something that could possibly have driven him _crazy._

"Essplode, Ky-ul!" Ike crowed, clapping happily with his accomplishment. With this action came another little splash of wetness, but this time in Kyle's eye. He squinted painfully and recoiled. "Ess-plode in the twee!"

"Jesus Christ, Ike!" Kyle moaned, a little angrier than he would have liked. He reached up and scrubbed at his eye, aware that it had began to burn with a dull, insistent anger. _Definitely _orange juice. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Fwy! G.I. Joe fwy!"

_Yeah, I'll make you fly, all right, _Kyle thought angrily, simmering with an unhealthy amount of animosity. Luckily, before he could act on any of these unreasonable feelings, he heard the gentle hush of his mother's house shoes as she made her way back toward the kitchen. He could tell in the way that she walked-- hurried, stressed-- that her coming would only add weight to his current situation.

"Kyle?" She asked as she came into the kitchen, her round face a perfect picture of tentative hope. He could see by the look in her eye that his father hadn't been of much help-- she looked vaguely lost. _Angry. _"Are you feeling better this morning, bubie? I made your favorite." _No, _He felt like saying immediately. Because it was the truth, wasn't it? But of course she couldn't know that. _Any of it._

"Yeah. I feel much better, mum," He said meekly, finding the strength in him to look up at her and smile. Even though it was painful and _terribly _unnatural, he knew it was the right thing to do . . . Because the minute she saw the smile, her own face seemed to light up. "Thanks for the breakfast. It was great."

Her face flushed with what Kyle could only judge as great relief. It was something very uncharacteristic to the face of his overbearing, oftentimes _unreasonable_ mother, and for this reason he was thankful that it was short-lived. She bustled toward Ike in her usual way, snatching the rag off the lip of the sink in the process.

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, bubie," She said sincerely, grabbing Ike by the shoulder and beginning to wipe his soiled face. The toddler began writhing in his seat, submitted to the awful torture Kyle himself had been submitted to countless times throughout his childhood-- that of the rough, skin-shredding rag. _You deserve it, you little asshole, _Kyle thought half-humorously, still rubbing at his eye.

"If you're planning on catching the bus, you'd better get a move on. It took me a little while longer than normal to wake you up," his mother said, still torturing Ike with the dry rag. Kyle couldn't help but smile when Ike let out a babbled --but plainly clear-- expletive. "Are you sure you want to bother? You may say you _feel _fine, but you don't look okay to me. You look like you could use a little bit more sleep."

Kyle gritted his teeth behind his lips, all the time thinking _get me out of here. Get me out of here before my mouth slips on her, and I end up saying something I'll regret. _He could feel the tension buried shallowly beneath his skin, in the thin layer just underneath, and it was causing him to literally _shake _in his little wooden chair. _Shake, _so that he could feel the one slightly short leg teeter over and over again upon the floor.

_I have to get out of here. I have to talk to him, _He thought hastily, biting back a wave of emotion he'd never be able to explain. _It's the only way to stop this. The only way to stop all this . . . Anger._

He hopped down from the chair and rushed toward his room as fast as he could, thanking God for the excuse that he was 'in a hurry'. If he hadn't have woken up late, it might look just _slightly strange _that getting dressed suddenly seemed so important . . . _And_ that he took the stairs at a speed that could have been considered flying.

"Nah. I feel fine, mom. I have something I have to tell Stan."

And even as the words flew from his mouth, intended to be an excuse, Kyle knew they were partway true. Because as he ditched his pajamas and tossed on some clothes, not even bothering to turn on the light to match them, all he could think about was what he was going to say to him. How he was going to tell him that he felt _betrayed, _and in the worst way possible.

_It all starts with being there, _He thought mildly, his stomach cramping with nervousness at even the _thought _of confronting his best friend after last night. After that . . . _heat._

_It all starts with being there, and if I'm not he'll think it means I'm giving up. Giving up not just on all of this . . . But on _him.

As he thought this, somewhat satisfied with himself, the odd sound of a bus brake sounded from down the street. Suspense hardened his muscles and at the last minute he pulled on his coat, slung his backpack over his shoulder and dashed down the stairs.

********************************************************************

Walking onto the playground as the recess bell rang was supposed to feel joyous. Lord knew it had on the other days. Speeding down the concrete stairs with a football in his hand, following his friends out the heavy back doors and wobbling on his feet through hard, rapid-fire titters sometimes seemed a repetitive way to spend a day's thirty minutes, but to Kyle nothing could ever be richer. It didn't matter if he sometimes got pushed down. It didn't matter if nine times out of ten he got tackled, ending up with scraped-up palms and lungs that felt like shriveled prunes.

All that mattered was the joy. The _nostalgia. _The pure childhood wonders of recess with your friends, and forming memories you'd try your whole life to get back.

This was the reason why, on this day, Kyle found it rather odd that his appearance on the playground felt more like a funeral march. It wasn't just _his _mood that seemed damp; it was _everyone's. _There was no Stan for him to follow after. No Cartman for him to relentlessly dodge, as he tried endlessly to snag his shoulder and send him stumbling. No football to punt. No _nothing._

Nothing but the snow, creating frosty ripples in the air as the loose flakes were lifted in the wind. Nothing but the quiet breeze, turning the old merry-go-round ever so slightly, letting out a tired shriek.

Nothing but _silence. _Nothing but everything Kyle didn't want to hear, and a nice little dose of animosity to go along with it.

_I don't know if I can do this, _He thought suddenly, shortly. So promptly that it actually scared him, enough to make him feel like running back inside and spending recess in the bathroom. _Face all of them like this. I don't know if I can do it. I know Stan has a lot more to tell us, but how can I just sit there and look at him when he--_

"Hey! _Psst, _Kyle!"

A familiar voice from behind him. Kyle whirled in the direction of the-- _Ugh-- _jungle gym, sure as shit what he would see. And he was right. There was Stan, standing right behind him, a little smirk on his face that said he'd thrown all that had happened yesterday out. Had he? Hell, it was easy for _him _to do. _He _wasn't the one who'd been surprised.

"Dude, we've been waiting for you. Did you forget where I said to meet?" Stan asked amiably, that little smile growing just a smidgen.

At seeing this humoring little smirk, Kyle felt himself try to do the thing he normally would do in this situation. I mean, it was a little odd that he 'didn't remember' where they were supposed to meet, but it was _funny, _so he was supposed to smile, right? To smile, laugh at himself, tell Stan he was 'retard'? To do the same thing he would have done all the years before?

He wasn't entirely surprised to feel that the instinctive smile was absent, today. Not just a _little_ absent, but _totally _gone, leaving his face in the dour, mellow state he was sure his mother had been worried about all last night and this morning. It wasn't just that he didn't _feel _like smiling. It was just that, when looking at Stan, the stirrings in his head said that smiling was the _last _thing he wanted to do.

"I didn't forget. I was coming," He said lowly, putting his hands in his pockets and his eyes to the ground.

From the fringes of his vision, he could see Stan stiffen at this response. Stiffen, and lean forward, as if checking Kyle's skin for some sort of deadly rash. It made his heart twist like a rag.

"Are you . . . Okay, dude? Did I do something?" Stan asked tentatively, with a level of clueless curiosity that made Kyle feel like screaming.

_Yes! Yes, you did do something!_ He wanted to respond. The words were resting right on the tip of his tongue, right within _grabbing distance, _but he just couldn't get them to come out. If this had been Cartman, Butters . . . _anyone _but Stan, he might have been able to judge things very quickly. But to do it to his best friend . . .

_You lied to me! You kept a secret that left Butters in pain, you tried to protect her on your own when you _knew _it only made things more dangerous, and you could have gotten us all killed because of it! You're irresponsible, unbelievable and--_

"Let's just go, dude," Kyle replied, letting his words out through a shallow sigh. He began walking away from Stan, toward the jungle gym that would likely house a full thirty minutes of stress and painful tension. "We only have half an hour. And you have news about Kenny, right?"

"Yeah," Stan responded, sounding vague and stunned. "Of course. I said that yesterday."

"Then let's get a move on before we run out of time."

Kyle moved on toward the jungle gym, listening to Stan's shuffling steps behind him as his feet dragged through the snow. This alone was enough to clue Kyle in that his best friend's mood had considerably dampened, but in his current state of mind it was a little hard to _care. _He'd hurt him, last night. Why was it so wrong to let Stan feel some of the sting?

When he reached the jungle gym, his body language about as merry as a parvo-ridden puppy, he could see two pairs of brown eyes staring at him from beneath the iron bars. One of these pairs was cloudy and plain, hooded by eyebrows that promised hatred and unprovoked meanness . . . And the other wide and bright, laced by dark eyelashes that seemed three miles long.

Cartman and Wendy. _Wendy._

_Of course. _She was a part of this now, wasn't she?

"Well it's about time you got your ass over here, fucktard. We thought Stan was going to have to start without you," Cartman snapped, his voice sounding strangely cheerful even through the string of insults. In a way, this actually made Kyle feel a little better-- at least it was something _normal. _

"Where were you? Curled up in a corner somewhere, trying to kill yourself? God knows we could never be so lucky." Kyle shot him a tired middle finger as he ducked beneath the bars. "Fuck off, fatass."

Cartman fell silent at this remark, a satisfied smirk crawling across his round, wind-chapped face.

When Kyle managed to get himself sidled beneath the bars-- a feat that seemed to take _much _too long, especially counting his tragically shattered wrists-- he found himself facing a relaxed, smiling Wendy. The shadowy darkness of their location, cool and gray and dappled with bright strips of sunlight, could do nothing to hide the emotions behind her expression . . . Because even though she was smiling, he could tell she was dreading the worst. It had nothing to do with what Stan would tell them. By the way she studied him, her eyes soft with tentative regard, he could tell she was fearing his reaction.

"Hey, Kyle," She said softly, in a low, meek voice that hardly matched her normal one at all. Kyle could sense Stan ducking into the shadowy space behind him, but he paid him no notice-- only looked at Wendy, thinking about how long he'd been ignorant. Thinking about how long she'd been able to do this-- to fix things like Cartman's nose_-- _without him knowing about it. Only _Stan._

"Hey, Wendy," He responded after a moment, his voice flat and joyless. A part of him knew that blaming Wendy for any of this was _insane, _especially after the way she and Stan had explained it last night (_It was all my idea to keep it from you, not hers, _Stan had said, his eyes like blue searchlights fixed on the ground, _And I tried to tell you but I was too afraid of how you'd react), _but he still wasn't surprised to notice himself put a considerable gap between he and his best friend's girlfriend. When he flounced to the cold ground below, flinching as his bottom landed in a puddle of dirty melting sludge, it shocked him to realize he had actually moved closer to _Cartman _than to Wendy. _Cartman. _

If Wendy took offense at this gesture, she didn't show it. She simply looked up at Stan as he entered their pavilion of otherworldly tales, and flashed him a short, grateful smile that made Kyle's spine crawl with razor blades. It was smiles like _that _that had put him under her spell. Smiles like _that _that had forced him to lie, and put everyone in danger because of it.Smiles like that that came from _girls _like--

_Stop it. That's enough, _He thought angrily, shifting busily against the hard, frozen ground. His bottom, protected only by the thin material of his trousers, could hardly be felt anymore. _It's okay to be mad at Stan, but it's not okay to blame Wendy because of it. It's _easier, _but . . . Still not right._

As Stan crossed in front of him and made his way over to Wendy, his demeanor suddenly brightened with the mere visage of her presence, it took everything in him to keep from speaking. In the end, he managed . . . But only by filling up his need to speak with something else. Something less _confrontational._

"So I guess Butters' 'miracle recovery' didn't fool his parents?" He asked listlessly, hugging his knees and staring fixedly into a puddle. His reflection stared back at him, somber and pale.

There was a short pause as Stan finished settling next to Wendy. Kyle might have looked up at him as he answered, but he was sure a part of him wouldn't be able to stand what he would see. The two of them, sitting close and snug. Maybe even so close you couldn't put a sheet of paper between them.

Because they _needed _each other. Needed the _comfort._

_Oh, please. If they _needed_ anything at all, they might have _said _something instead of--_

"Yeah. As amazing as his recovery is, the adults are a little harder to convince," Stan said, his affable tone of before seeming to have returned for the time being. _Of course it did, _The mean part of Kyle said before he could shut it up. _Of course it did, because he's next to _her. "They didn't let him out of the hospital, either. The doctors won't stop running tests on him. They think he has some sort of 'miracle virus' in his blood or something."

"Jesus Christ. They didn't find anything, did they?" Kyle heard himself asking before he could stop.

A tiny sickle of a smile curved Stan's lips. Kyle wasn't sure what it was for . . . Only that it chilled his spine, a bit, as many things about Stan had done since yesterday night. He wasn't sure if it was just him or not, but something had _changed _in his best friend. Even when he was himself . . . Something was _off._

"I don't think so, dude. If they had, I'm pretty sure he'd be in quarantine by now," Stan said, laughing shortly at the end of his sentence. He fidgeted in his spot-- which was a strange behavior in itself, considering the fact that Stanley Marsh wasn't ordinarily the 'fidgeting' type-- and moved a little closer to Wendy, an action that ignited Kyle's uneasiness like a fire. Protectiveness, or fear?

"I think it'll be fine. They'll just consider it a freak accident and let him off. You know how they are there. They would release a guy with a pipe through his head as long as he was still aware enough to talk."

Cartman gave a brief scoff of laughter at this. All other heads in the room turned instinctively toward him at this, Kyle's included . . . But whatever the fatass had found humorous about Butters' situation, it wasn't funny anymore. The laughter had died.

"Forget about Butters. He's useless anyway," He quipped, when he realized all eyes were on him. He shifted a little in his seat, reminding Kyle uncomfortably of Stan . . . And then said, "Tell us what happened to Kenny. You had to have seen him, right?"

Feeling a little like a bobble-head dashboard decoration, Kyle turned his attention back to his semi-estranged best friend. He immediately noticed the change lingering there-- after all, how could you know a guy five years and _not _notice?-- but he didn't think it had anything to do with Kenny. He could have said he figured this out _after _Stan answered the question, but later on he'd think on it and realize that _wasn't it . . . _no matter _how _much it scared him.

_That look . . . _He thought, suddenly finding it appropriate to bunch his hands into fists. He felt the slide of cotton against cotton as both his mittens met and mingled, and became aware that he was wringing his hands. _Great. _Just like Butters.

_It's the way he looked . . . Just after he woke up. When I saw that tear, and he went after Wendy . . ._

His heart was suddenly wrapped in a cold sheet. He continued looking at Stan, his eyes wide and attentive, his hands working at each other like two complicated animals doing the nasty. He looked at Stan like a stunned child first learning his ABCs, and for the first time that day he did it without anger. Without even a smidgen of resentment.

Remembering that unpleasant little confrontation of last night would surely bring it back, but for now it was blissfully out of memory.

"I saw a lot of things," Stan said shortly, suddenly looking at the ground instead of at anyone else. Kyle at first judged this emotion to be sadness, but on looking closer it was just a little more . . . Because he hadn't exactly been _sad _when he'd went after Wendy yesterday, had he? When he'd looked the same way? Of course, he had been a _little . . ._

But mostly he'd been _angry._

A hard lump settled into Kyle's chest. He felt the urge to get up and _run, _no matter _how _important this conversation was, because ending up like the man who'd gotten between Stan and Wendy yesterday didn't seem like a pleasant experience. But hell, he was here for the ride now, wasn't he? Now that it was obvious that Stan needed him?

_Pathetic. He can piss me off more than I've ever been in my life, but I still can't get up and leave when he needs me. Even when it's possible that he might turn me into paste._

Some part of him was aware this thought was just a little funny, but _no _part of him was laughing.

Stan's brows furrowed over his beautiful, frightening eyes, and that was enough to bring Kyle out of his thought. Wendy placed a hand on her boyfriend's back and rubbed just slightly, enough to soften shoulders that had been rigid and hollow with some pent-in emotion . . . But they weren't doing much to cure that face. That _hardness._

There was likely only _one _thing that could cure _that. _And it was probably _murder_.

"So what happened?" Cartman cut in through the thick, pea-soup tension. Kyle didn't know whether he was aware of it our not, but the fatass's voice was carrying a _lot _of concern. "_Did _you see him, or didn't you?"

Stan made a strange, choked noise in the back of his throat. He looked up afterwards, his face slightly flushed and sweaty but mostly normal . .. Except for those eyes. Those bright, penetrating, _haunting _eyes.

"No. I didn't see him," He said flatly, in the voice he often used when things were beginning to get out of hand. "I didn't see him, but a met a guy who had. The guy who let me in on what was going to happen to Wendy. The guy who I couldn't . . ."

Another falter, another drop of his gaze to the cold, hard ground. When he said what was next on his mind he did not raise his gaze, and Kyle thought that was perhaps why it struck him as such a surprise . .. But, maybe then, that wasn't the reason at all. Maybe it was something else.

Maybe it was because the next thing Stan said was utterly, downright _frightening. _

Maybe _that _was it.

"The guy who you couldn't what?" Wendy asked softly, her hand still lightly revolving on Stan's tight, trembling back. He looked pathetic, the way he was now. Pathetic, and _miserable. _"What happened, Stan?"

He swallowed. Kyle wouldn't have been able to tell had he just been looking on, but an audible click from his best friend's throat clued him in.

"The guy that I couldn't hurt. The guy who said my powers wouldn't work on him, and that he didn't think anyone else's would, except for .. ."

He looked up, as unexpectedly as a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky. Kyle was suddenly fixed in that frightening, deep blue gaze, unable to do anything except blink, stutter, and _gasp. _It was the long, drawing sort that shriveled his lungs like raisins, and he suddenly found that he could barely breathe. He didn't feel like he was strong enough.

"I think you're the only one, Kyle," Stan finished simply, still drilling Kyle with that gaze. Still penetrating him, but it was no longer threatening . . . More _pitying. _More the type of thing that made Kyle wish he'd _never _woken up from that coma a month ago, and instead slipped into sweet, cascading darkness forevermore.

"He told me nothing would work, but I think that was a lie.You're the only one, Kyle. There's only one thing in the world that can get rid of him, and I think it's you."

_What? Who? What the hell are you talking about? _Kyle wanted to say, through a mouth that suddenly wouldn't work. He was hopelessly lost in whatever Stan had said, as surely everyone else beneath this jungle gym was . . . But the confusion was lost behind one thing. One _sentence._

_You're the only one, Kyle. There's only one thing in the world that can get rid of him, and I think it's you. _

_Who the hell are you talking about, Stan? What the hell do you mean, and why would you--_

Before he could get the rest of the thought out, the world was spinning in a not-unpleasant shade of darkest, murky gray. There was only one thing he could think as he went out like a light, only one thing in the _world _that mattered enough to outshine the thought of having to use his powers to save his friend's lives . . . And it bellowed in his head like a fire signal as he collapsed into the snow.

_I should have listened to mom, I should have stayed home today . . . I should have just stayed in bed._

After that, everything was black.

************************************************************************

Hey, dudes! Strange place to end, huh? But I could think of nothing better. Nothing more DRAMATIC. So that's what you get . .. But it was good, right? RIGHT?! I know you were probably a little confused at Stan's . . . _skipping of the details, _but don't worry. The poor boy's traumatized. He'll explain the rest next chapter.

Okay, so what happens next? Well, Kyle wakes up from his faint, of course. :P We also get to hear Stan's reasoning behind the last sentence of this chapter, and what the rest of the gang are going to do about Kenny. About _Slicer, _too . . . Because even though he's a little hard for Stan to talk about, he'll get there. Just give him some time. And what about the strains on Stan and Kyle's friendship? Will they be repaired?

I don't know. Wait and see. :P

Okay! See you next time!! Thanks for the reviews and praises, guys, I love you all so much!

-Aub


	11. Beneath the Jungle Gym

_**Hey, guys! It's me, and once again I'm terribly sorry for the delay. Darned writer's block! But I feel like this chapter came out pretty good-like. I guess it's up to you to decide for yourself . . . But it's a little less action packed than the others. I had a hard three weeks. :P**_

_**Okay, and here's the part where I say words I hope you've been dreading: the end is very, very **_**near. It's been a great story, I think--I hope-- and I've had a brilliant time writing it, but I'm about ready to close the door. The story's wound itself out, I think, and you know what they always say-- too much of a good thing can be the worst.**

**But don't worry. The ending will not disappoint you. There's about two or three chapters left . . . . And after that, it's only a matter of seeing what I write next. *smile***

**Okay! There's nothing much left to say, so with that, I introduce you to lucky number eleven: Beneath the Jungle Gym!**

**___________________________________________________________________________________**

**Chapter 11: Beneath the Jungle Gym**

**It started the way many other things throughout the passage of time-- and oblivion-- had began; with darkness. It started in a way that was hollow but strangely relieving; in a way that frightened but also comforted him. It started in the state he'd been wishing he was in, the moment Stan had started talking about such serious matters. Matters such as **_**dependency**_**; dependency upon things he could understand no better than he could control.**

**Looking through the fancy words, it all began with something very simple. Something as simple as a boy named Kenny McCormick; a boy that Kyle had known most of his aware life, and had grown to greatly miss through this last eventful weekend. They hadn't seen much of him, since Friday afternoon-- not since he'd started off to Butters' aid, anyways, and been kidnapped in the process-- but worrying about him had seemed surprisingly second nature. It wasn't out of a lack of caring; simply as a well-learned **_**habit. **_**Worrying about someone as resourceful as Kenny McCormick was about as senseless as worrying whether or not the Earth would be eventually sucked into the sun. You knew that no amount of worrying in the **_**world **_**would do any good, because all hope seemed to rely on out-of-the-blue, influenced-by-nothing **_**chance. **_**Of course the worry of Kenny being hurt weighed a little heavy. But the fact of the matter was, if anyone was strong enough to deal the worst shit on Earth, stuff from the planet's **_**arm pit, **_**Kenny was the guy.**

**Well, maybe not the only one that could make it **_**through. **_**Stan would probably be strong enough to make it through such as well, counting the untold horrors he'd lived through yesterday afternoon . . . and Kyle was sure that he himself might be able to pull through if he had enough inspiration.**

**But Kenny was the only one who could make it through with his **_**mind. **_**The only one that could pull through and still be the same in the end; because the thing was fucked up already. How could you corrupt that which was already corrupted?**

_**But wait. Wait a minute, **_**Kyle thought, the first time he saw Kenny's face through the darkness. He didn't see it as a phantom floating in the abyss, but more of as he would see him any day on the playground, with his shoes buried in rivets of snow and that God-forsaken hood swallowing his head like a wide mouth. At first he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was a hallucination or a dream, because the possibility of it being real was slim, maybe even **_**impossible**_** . . .but when Kenny spoke, his voice turgid and edgy but still somehow calm, Kyle knew for sure that this was something different. Not exactly **_**understandable . . . **_**but something **_**different. **_**As if maybe he'd been knocked out as a simple avenue to receive this odd message.**

"**Kenny?"**__**He tried to ask, not feeling his mouth move but hearing the words just the same. Everything about him seemed **_**numb, **_**all the sudden, as if his body were submerged in snow. But hadn't it been melting before? And hadn't he been beneath a freaking **_**jungle gym, **_**for Christ's sake?**

"**What are you doing here, Kenny? Stan said he heard about you, and he was going to tell us what happened. But something's wrong, I think, because everything went black . . ."**

**From wherever he was in space, wherever he was in **_**time, **_**Kenny held up one of his hands. Whether this was in impatience or concern, Kyle would never know; only that it was suddenly very easy to remain quiet. To **_**listen. **_

_**Don't worry about me, Kyle. Don't worry about me right now, **_**He said impatiently, as if speaking to a small, attention-compromised child. A gust of wind sounded in Kyle's ears, drowning everything in a whistling, buffering rush, but Kenny's voice still seemed normal as ever. His hood was resting lightly on his head, and by all intents and purposes should have blown off in the breeze . . . But it hadn't, cluing Kyle into what he had pretty much known from the very beginning. That what he was seeing wasn't exactly . . . **_**real.**_

_**I'm fine, and worrying about me isn't going to get you anywhere. It's not me that he's after. Not directly, anyway.**_

**For a static second, Kyle was not able to speak. He thought it was more the shock of seeing Kenny than anything else, but some part deep inside said it was because he **_**knew **_**what was coming up next. Even in the most turbulent of times life panned out like a badly-scripted movie, and all it took was the slightest intelligence to be able to see the twists around the bend. But no matter how much he knew it was coming, saying it out loud was a different story. Playing dumb seemed a better option. Playing dumb, and acting the part of the pathetic, naïve little weakling that passed out at the tiniest shred of horrifying news. It wasn't the role he was normally used to by **_**any **_**means, but it now seemed drastically appropriate; An important component to life's badly written play.**

"**What do you mean, Kenny?" He asked, once again not feeling the words exit his mouth. But that didn't seem to matter, did it? Wherever he was speaking to Kenny from, words apparently didn't need lips to travel through. "Stan said he heard news about you. He didn't get a chance to say yet, but by the way he looked I don't think it was anything **_**good**_** . . . So what do you mean, it's not you that he's after?"**

_**He's not going to hurt me, Kyle. Trust me. If he was going to, he'd have already done it, **_**The Kenny-thing said, stepping just a little bit closer to wherever Kyle was looking at him from the snow. Even though whatever he was seeing couldn't have **_**possibly**_** been natural, just the small number of steps Kenny used to close some of the distance between them made Kyle feel **_**worlds **_**calmer. As if his friend were standing right there, instead of locked up in some smelly, leaky room being subjected to God-knew-what.**

_**So maybe I'm dead, **_**He thought, feeling his heart begin to thud just a little bit harder in his chest. There was the faint sound of a lost voice behind him in the wind, whipped away and chopped up by hard, rapid-fire breezes . . . And though it was hard to make out, he thought it might have been Stan. Stan, from a place far and insignificant to the strange wonderland he'd ended up in. **

_**Maybe I'm dead, and Kenny is too. Maybe Stan scared me so bad that I died.**_

_**You probably don't have any idea what's going on, and that's fine. Because I really don't either, **_**the sort-of-Kenny said, breaking Kyle out of his unfortunate path of thinking. He stepped closer-- **_**dramatically **_**closer, so close that Kyle could pick out fibers in a coat that most surely couldn't be real-- and kneeled down in front of him, to a low position that told Kyle he was **_**at least **_**propping himself with his hands and knees. One of the familiar brown-mittened hands made its way to his shoulder, and settled there with a unnaturally light weight.**

_**All I know is that there's something I need to tell you, dude, and though I don't know how or why, I'm getting the chance. **_

**Kyle craned his neck back just a little farther. While it relieved him greatly that he even **_**had **_**a neck to crane, he was just a tad shocked to look up and see Kenny's face so **_**close. **_**There was nothing missing from the face to tell him it wasn't real. No strange gleam in the concerned and familiar eyes. No swish of **_**wrongness, **_**like a black mark through the center of a Van Gogh.**

**Just **_**Kenny. **_**Kenny so real and solid that he could have reached out and hugged him. And after this time, after this **_**worrying . . . **_**hugging him was the thing he wanted more than anything else to do. Just to crush him in his arms and pretend like everything was normal; the way it had been **_**before **_**all this crazy shit had started to happen.**

"**I . . . I'm so glad to see you, dude,"**__**He heard himself say, his voice sounding foggy and unnaturally slow. Somewhere behind him, somewhere outside this place of swishing snow and phantoms, Stan's voice faintly called his name. "We had no idea what could be happening to you. Where are you, and what's--"**

**Before Kyle could finish his concerned, sure to become hysterical ramblings, the strangely light hand on his shoulder clamped down just a bit more. It felt desperate, that grasp. Desperate, and **_**time-compromised, **_**as if an unforgiving wind might crop up any moment and sweep him heedlessly away.**

_**There's no time for that now, Kyle. You have to listen to me. You have to be **_**careful, **_**okay? This son of a bitch keeps drilling me for information about you, and the stuff I see him doing when he finds out what he wants isn't good, **_**Kenny interrupted, his voice so urgent and pushy that Kyle could barely hope to get in another squeak of speech. **_**I'm not going to tell him anything, but it's only a matter of time before someone else **_**does. **_**He won't let up. **_

**Kyle continued to stare up at Kenny, not even blinking as flurries of snow frosted the tips of his eyelashes. He could still hear voices in the air behind him-- now not just Stan's, but **_**at least **_**one more, most likely an inpatient, roaring Cartman-- but they were nothing but mere nuisances, now. Mere nuisances growing louder, but still nothing compared to seeing Kenny.**

_**It's this 'he' again. Just like Stan, **_**Kyle thought, feeling an out-of-place cloud of frustration begin to consume him. It gave him a small regain of strength, and **_**that **_**was a little pleasing . . . But he could still feel everything slipping away. As if he might **_**faint, **_**all over again. **_**'He' is looking for you. 'He' said Stan's powers wouldn't work on him, and that mine were the only ones that would. 'He' this, 'he' that. This is becoming **_**more **_**than a little tiring.**_

"**Who are you talking about, Kenny?" He asked, managing to mask most of the exasperation dripping from his voice. He shifted in the snow, and was nearly buckled to the ground when a surge of blackness invaded his vision. It passed easily enough, but something inside him **_**knew **_**there wasn't much time left. "I keep hearing this stuff about this 'he', and I don't know what the hell anyone's talking about--"**

_**Stan will tell you everything. He knows it all . . . He was there. The man told me he was, **_**Kenny responded urgently, his voice beginning to sound like a slurred, broken nonsense. Kyle cocked his head to the side, hoping this would clarify things a bit, but he knew it wouldn't last him much longer. He was **_**going, **_**just as he had from beneath the jungle gym.**

_**All I need to tell you is to **_**be careful, **_**Kyle. **_**Do not **_**be alone. Do not go **_**anywhere **_**without Stan, Cartman, Butters or Wendy, preferably all four of them. And **_**definitely **_**don't let your guard down. He's coming after you. And he's going to **_**kill you, **_**the first chance that he gets.**_

**There were many questions Kyle suddenly wanted to ask, but only one of them prompted words. They came out shaky, thin. H**_**umiliating. **_

"**Who are you talking about? And what the hell does he want from me?"**

**Everything began to swim and darken in his vision, curling and swirling together like an ink blot in the center of a puddle. That unbelievable brown-mittened hand on his shoulder was whisked away and joined as nothing but a product of the darkness, but he could still feel Kenny's presence on his body like heat. He heard his voice one last time before the sheet of blackness fell over him again, but the words were desperately hollow. Hollow, and **_**far away, **_**as if being shouted from a mountaintop two miles behind. **

_**Remember what I said. It's the only way to keep what I'm seeing from coming true, **_**Kenny's voice said, seeming to lose some of the urgency as the world closed in around him. Kyle blinked and there was suddenly nothing but black; black, and a strange wetness freezing the back of his neck. A cold, **_**numbing **_**wetness.**

_**If he gets what he wants, it destroys everything. Don't give him that chance.**_

"**But wait a minute! Don't go yet!" Kyle heard himself cry, his voice lost in a combination of the wind and that strange, growing darkness. "I don't understand what you're talking about! How am I supposed to do anything if I don't understand?!"**

**His fingers tightened in the snow, trying to fight back the wave of darkness. Trying to fight it back just long enough for Kenny to come through one last time, and explain everything that was so unclear. But by the time he had even asked the question, the darkness crowding him had already said it was too late. It came and billowed relentlessly into his vision, pushing and shoving like a rude stranger in the center of a crowd.**

**The next voice he heard belonged to Stan. It was unbelievably loud this time, and seemed to come from directly above him.**

"**Kyle? Kyle, dude, wake up!"**

**The blackness pushed its way into the center and finally consumed him. He felt himself pitching forward in the strange, foreign snow, but before he hit the ground he was gone.**

************************************************************************

"**Kyle! Come on, dude! Snap out of it!"**

**Fingers, sinking painfully into his shoulder blades. Blades of sunlight winking at the thin membranes of his closed, twitching eyelids. Worst of all, that **_**numbness. **_**Up and down the backs of his legs and all over his back, ending in that sensitive spot of bare skin just beneath the place his hat stopped covering. **

_**I'm on my back. Somehow I've ended up on my back, but I don't remember how I--**_

"**Kyle! Come on, dude, I know you're in there!"**

**His thoughts were interrupted by a rough, powerful shake. The origins of the jostling came from the voice directly above him, and from the fingers currently sinking like dull spikes into the meat of his shoulders. The back of his head drummed lightly against the hard ground with the force of the shake.**

"_**Wake up!"**_

**As if for emphasis, this last phrase was punctuated by an extra-hard jolt. It was enough to send Kyle's head onto the ground with a just-passing-uncomfortable force, but the pain was a lot less than unwelcome. If anything, it was **_**invited**_**; because at feeling it, the world around Kyle suddenly seemed to rush back into focus. Kids laughing all around them, scattering shadows and darts of light as they crawled like monkeys over the jungle gym. Screams distorted by the Doppler effect as merry-go-rounds were spun into blurs. **

**Recess. The sounds of recess, and the precious foundations of reality.**

**The place **_**without **_**Kenny. **_**Without **_**his strange, ominous warnings.**

"**Kyle? Are you awake?"**

**The fingers currently butchering his shoulder blades tightened once again as they prepared for yet **_**another **_**shake. Kyle might have kept pretending he was asleep, just to humor his spastic best friend-- the anger seemed to have washed away, for now, somewhat thankfully- but decided that might be just a tad too cruel. Judging by the sound of Stan's voice, he was terrified. Why scare him more than necessary, **_**especially **_**counting the unnamed things he'd lived through yesterday afternoon?**

**So thinking this, he brought up both his hands and placed them on those currently torturing his shoulder blades. Smiling slightly at the surprised gasp from above him he lifted on the hands and stripped them off, aware that moving made his arms feel like Jell-O. Like **_**half-congealed **_**Jell-O.**

"**Jesus **_**Christ, **_**dude. I know you're worried, but try not to **_**kill me," **_**He said, managing to make his tone light and halfway-playful. He opened his eyes and was forced to squint at the strip of sunlight winking down at him, blocked only by the swell of his best friend's head crouching above. "What the hell are you doing? My wrists are already useless-- why not break my shoulders, too, while we're at it?"**

**There was one shocked, concerned moment, and then an exhausted smile spread across Stan's face. It came gradually and dreadfully slow, like the smallest drop of water weathering its way through layers of compressed rock . . . But it was eventually there**_**, **_**and that perhaps thrilled Kyle most of all. Especially counting the way he'd looked yesterday night, and not five minutes ago before everything had went black. Grave. Severe. And **_**deadly serious, **_**as serious as an assassination. **

"**Kyle! Dude, are you okay?" Stan repeated hurriedly, bringing his hands back to his best friend's shoulders. For a moment Kyle was forced to wince, **_**sure **_**that those fingers would dig painfully back into his flesh like sharpened spades . . . But was able to let out a sigh of relief when Stan's grasp did nothing but urge him to a sit. He wasn't sure how his body would respond to it but he did as his best friend wanted anyhow, still too dazed to offer any vigorous sort of protest. Dazed, **_**and **_**just a tiny bit scared. Had he really just seen what he thought he did? Had he really just seen . . . **_**Kenny**_**?**

"**I'm . . . okay, dude," he responded meekly, grabbing hold of Stan's coat to better ease the action of raising his head. When he was fully upright he was shocked to find himself staring straight into the brown bedroom eyes of miss best-friend's-girlfriend herself, and just a little touched to see the concerned water lining the rims of her eyes. Even after so traumatic an experience, seeing her face brought a dark twist of resentment to his heart. But it seemed subtler, somehow. Less concentrated. And that was good, considering how close she was sitting to him; because beforehand, he had a feeling he might have snapped at her. He'd just been so **_**angry. **_

"**Are you sure? You're very pale," Wendy said simply. Her hands were folded in her lap, but he saw them jump ever so slightly-- as if she were debating whether or not it would be smart to touch him. "Do you want me to go get the nurse? You don't look well at all."**

**Kyle considered her offer a moment, but not with any real seriousness. Sure, it would be great if she would **_**leave **_**for a couple of minutes, so he could relay to Stan and Cartman the things that he'd just witnessed . . . But she was a part of this now, wasn't she? Whether he liked it or not, and if **_**he **_**didn't want to argue it, Stan certainly would. She had reconstructed the tragic mess of Cartman's shattered nose, and brought Butters back from a place best described as the threshold of heaven's door. In so many ways, how was it any different from freezing objects in place or causing deadly explosions with her hands?**

**Not to mention the fact that talking about the things he'd just seen seemed absurd, if not stupid. Sure, he had no doubt in his mind that his companions--if not all, **_**at least **_**Stan-- would believe everything he said. Cartman might act just a bit sour about it, but in the end he'd be just as taken. And keeping it from them would be lying. **_**Betrayal. **_**No better than the very thing he'd been angry at Stan for all last night, and what was sure to be many more after. **

"**No. I'm fine. It was just a little fainting spell," Kyle replied grudgingly, even as he said it knowing that it wasn't exactly true. **_**Fainting spell? **_**If that had been a simple **_**fainting spell, **_**he was the Queen of England. But, suddenly, it no longer seemed right to tell about Kenny. Not, at least, until Stan told everything he knew . . . And judging by the pace they were going in, recess would be **_**long **_**over before he got the chance to. Unless he could get him to get a move on.**

"**It was exhaustion, I think. Nothing to worry about. I feel perfectly fine." **

**Three pairs of eyes-- two brown, one blue-- studied him with gathering incredulity. The moment didn't last long, but it was enough to make him feel vastly uncomfortable; that, **_**and **_**to make him question his decision regarding the phantom Kenny. **_**These are my best friends, aren't they? These are the people I should be able to trust with **_**anything, **_**no matter how weird it sounds. **_

**Stan spoke up before these thoughts could reach their full extent. Generally, Kyle was glad of this; but in the end he'd come to greatly regret it.**

"**Sorry about that, dude. I guess I **_**did **_**come on a little strong," Stan said damply, his voice low and broody as if he were possibly the most miserable person on earth. He looked up and smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. They remained misty and subdued. "But I didn't know what to say. It was eating at me all night long."**

**Something very unpleasant struck Kyle's mind-- **_**You know what was eating **_**me **_**all night long? Your fucking betrayal. **_**That's **_**what-- **_**But his natural reactions as a lifetime best friend trumped out any unnecessary hostilities. Despite feeling dangerously woozy he managed to bring up a shaking hand and lay it firmly on Stan's shoulder, for the moment not caring about the potentially moody glint in his best friend's eyes.**

"**Don't worry about it, dude. You had a hard day, yesterday. I don't think any of us could even beg to compare," He said, through the scattering darts of sunlight and cheery, all-around laughter of their fellow classmates. How ironic it seemed, to hear them laugh. How ironic, counting the amount of times lately Kyle had found himself hard-pressed not to burst into tears. **

"**If you don't think you're ready to tell us yet, then **_**don't. **_**It'll be better, I think. Better for **_**all **_**of us. What good will you be if you're jumping at shadows?"**

**Stan gave a narrow smile, at this. After seeing it, Kyle thought it might have been better if he hadn't have smiled at all; because it prompted a large and rather feisty goose to go walking across his grave. **

"**Nah, I think it's better if I get it all out now. Besides that, there's not really much more to say," He said, his voice having regained half of its original tone and cheerfulness. Kyle could think of no other reason for this, other than the fact that he had spoken to Stan without a shred of last night's anger. This realization made him feel positively wretched. "He never came out and said it, but I think he was threatening your life, Kyle. Yours, and Kenny's."**

"_**Who?" **_**Kyle demanded, his frustration getting the better of him. But who could blame him? This alleged 'he' was really starting to grate on his nerves, and their time here alone was really starting to wear down. He had no idea how long he'd been passed out, but **_**certainly **_**long enough to cut their time short **_**at least **_**ten minutes. **_**"Who **_**was threatening my life?"**

**Stan paused a moment, and looked at the ground uneasily. At his silence Wendy shifted a little closer into him, leaving Cartman brazen and alone in the corner. For perhaps the first time since Kyle had known him, the fatass didn't seem to mind the isolation. He was staring at the ground intently, as if it might have grown patterns. **

"**You see? That's the thing," Stan remarked quietly, his brows furrowing softly as he looked to the side of Kyle. His eyes found his again eventually, but the vacant look in them made Kyle believe he was looking **_**through **_**him rather than at him. And not even Wendy's closeness seemed to offer any help. "I'm not exactly sure **_**what **_**I saw. I think to make it make any sense at all, I'd have to start from the beginning. And I'm not sure if we have time anymore."**

**Cartman scoffed. He began rattling off something to the nature of Kyle's being a little pussy and fainting like a fag, but Kyle was too busy looking around their secret hiding place to do much for noticing. It was a little dumb to call the place 'secret' considering how every child in the entire **_**school **_**had been previously inclined to reap its benefits-- mostly as a romantic grotto to drag overeager, underage girlfriends, much to Kyle's constant confusion-- but when it came to the people who really mattered, the **_**teachers, **_**the nook was fairly hidden. He wasn't sure if this had something to do with their simple carelessness or not, but on previous occasions under here they had seemed strictly invisible come round-up time. Not even **_**Mackey **_**seemed to notice them, and he had eyes like a freaking heat-seeking missiles. It was a miracle bordering on **_**magical. **_**And, considering the current condition of things, Kyle wasn't so sure if it could be called anything **_**but.**_

**He opened his mouth to speak, praying like hell he wouldn't regret it. There was a moment's hesitation as a nosy Clyde briefly poked in his head to investigate things, and then he said, "I think we have time if we just stay here. We can just tell Garrison we were in the bathroom. He'd never know the difference."**

**Wendy's eyes widened, a little. Kyle understood the expression completely, knowing full well what it felt like to fear the wrath of overbearing adults . . . But Kenny's voice in his head was still replaying itself over and over. And it said **_**Get the story. Force it out of him. Get Stan to talk, because he knows everything. **_

**It also said **_**stay together. **_**But **_**that**_** was an issue for later on in the day. **

"**If we're all gone? Of **_**course **_**he'll know the difference!" Wendy cried, her voice teetering on the edge of something fit to be called building hysteria. Stan's tortured eyes flickered up to her, briefly, but the spark died as soon as it lit. **_**Goody. **_**"And you're sick! You need to go home and **_**rest, **_**not sit around worrying yourself out over--"**

"**We'll tell him we were in the bathroom, or something. It's not a big deal," Kyle said stiffly, trying to pull off some semblance of sentiment in his voice. By the way Wendy reacted, the slight paling of her face and straightening of her back as if someone had ran a nail up a chalkboard, he knew he had drastically failed. "I think we need to hear this, now. I think it would be better for Stan if he gets it out . . . And better for **_**Kenny. **_**So we can know what to do, here."**

**Wendy took in a breath, as if preparing to speak. Kyle fixed her with his eyes, which felt gritty and irritated from his spell of unconscious slumber . . . And, surprisingly, the need to speak her mind seemed to vanish. Her mouth closed on itself with a nearly comical **_**snap, **_**and she turned to her emotional boyfriend with a defeated frown on her face. **_**Damn, **_**Kyle had time to think. **_**I must be more intimidating than I thought. **_

**He scooted a bit more toward Stan, fighting past a wave of wooziness that threatened to bring him to his knees. **_**Damn **_**Kenny. If he ever saw him again-- when**_** I see him again, **_**He corrected, though he knew it might be false hope-- he owed him a nice, swift kick to the balls.**

"**Are you ready, Stan? Wendy's a little right, you know. We don't have all day, but if you aren't ready . . ."**

**Stan looked back up at Kyle with a vaguely stupefied look on his face. Kyle got the feeling it was related to his sudden 180 in moods, but it also could have been from the way he'd brushed off Wendy. Smooth, and skillful. A method he'd never mastered before, and **_**especially **_**as of late. Because lately, he'd been fragile. Perturbed. **

_**Broked.**_

"**Are . . . Are you sure, dude?" Stan asked tentatively, his tone regaining some of its normal influence. He was looking at Kyle as if he were a stranger, but he was pleased to see that his eyes still held a great deal of trust. "You still look really pale, and I don't want to be responsible if you fall over and pass out again--"**

"**Yes, Stan. I'm **_**totally **_**sure," Kyle half-snapped, trying to hide the irritation in his voice. Or, if not exactly irritation, **_**suspense. **_**Because despite how vehemently he tried to console her, Wendy was right. Garrison **_**would **_**notice they were gone, and he wouldn't be happy about it, either. As a matter of fact, if he **_**discovered **_**they were gone, keeping him from a total **_**spitting**__**tirade**_** would be a feat bordering on impossible.**

_**But I can't worry about that, now. Kenny wants me to hear this out, and though I don't know why I have to listen to him. I have to . . . **_**trust **_**him.**_

**He couldn't explain why, anymore, but that seemed like the easiest thing about this whole situation. To just **_**trust **_**him. To put everything over into his hands, and . . . **_**trust.**_

"**I'm not going anywhere this time, Stan. And it wasn't your fault anyway," He continued, looking his best friend earnestly in the eyes. Tiny little smidgens of last night's boiling anger spiked and tried to come back, but Kyle was thankfully able to wrap himself in a dense, impermeable shellac. None of last night's poison was getting in until he was good and ready for it to. Hopefully, that wouldn't be for a **_**long **_**time. **

"**I feel like hearing you out is the best thing to do. I think that . . . Kenny would want it." A stroke of quick, identifiable misery wormed its way through Stan's features. Cartman's head made its way from the floor, to regard Kyle with an expression that was not entirely uninterested . . . But the fatass's odd changes of heart were the least of his worries, now. It was all about Stan. Stan, and whatever awful things had happened to him during those two uncharted hours.**

**He saw his best friend's face light up like a traveling spark. It was a sudden reaction, and greatly unexpected after the previous events of the day. It was that **_**determined **_**look, again, the one he'd been wearing before he'd projected into the badlands . . And, perhaps because of what effects Kyle had before envisioned the retelling might have on him, it came as a bit of a relief. Not entirely, however. History often repeated itself, and in the past that look had come to mean he was thinking of doing something stupid.**

_**Brave, **_**But stupid. **

_**Ho, boy, **_**Kyle thought, not able to hide the tiny smile that began at the corners of his mouth. **_**Here we go again.**_

"**You want to hear everything? Okay. I'll tell you. I think I'm ready, now," Stan said, apparently changed by the mention of Kenny's name. "If you think it can save him, there's no use stalling, is there?"**

**Kyle had opened his mouth to say **_**good, good, great, now get a freaking **_**move**__**on**_**, **_**but naturally, Wendy intercepted. She leaned up, placed a hand on Stan's hard, determined cheek and turned his face toward her own, her body language cocked and svelte as if lusting for a deep, lip-crushing kiss. By the look that suddenly flicked across Stan's face-- shocked, a little dreamy-- Kyle could tell he was thinking the very same thing.**

"**Stan," Wendy whispered, her voice so low that Kyle couldn't make it out save for reading her lips. It was the rushing of the wind that did it, perhaps also a little of the tired, half-hearted chuckles as classmates prepared for the impending end of recess. It sounded to his ears like the gong of the clock must have sounded to Cinderella as she fled the castle ballroom, sprouting inside of him a turgid sort of suspense that made his skin shrink on his bones.**

"**Stan, please don't do this. It will only upset you even more, and what if Kyle gets upset and passes out again? None of you are in any condition to be discussing this right now, you need a night of good rest and--"**

**Much to Kyle's relief, Stan did not let her finish. In the middle of her long-winded, naggy sentence he suddenly smiled at her, his handsome face lighting in such a way that Wendy's words caught in the back of her throat. Kyle found himself smiling a little wider behind the irritation. This was not a reaction to the sentiment-- though touching as it was, almost as much so as last night when Stan had sunk to his knees on the concrete beside her and enveloped her in his arms-- but more as a desperate way to try and hide the sudden spike of resentment that pricked into his brain. **

_**I kept trying to tell you, but I just couldn't. I was so afraid that the more people I told, the more of a chance there'd be of **_**them **_**finding out . . . And then coming after her . . .**_

**It was hard, but Kyle managed to shut a steel door over Stan's words of last night. It was the final time he'd have to do it that day . . . And, little did he know, the final chance he'd have to really **_**worry **_**about it.**

"**It'll be okay, Wendy. I know what I'm doing," Stan said, the slight wavering in his voice completely defeating his feigned confidence. He turned away from her briskly as if the sight of her face might change his mind, and fixed Kyle with those piercing, deliberate eyes. It was clear just by looking at them that they meant no stalling. Something that Kyle had said had spurred him on-- mention of Kenny, most likely-- and now there was no turning back. He'd get it out even if it killed him.**

**And, as Stan opened his mouth and began his horrifying tale, Kyle began to wonder if maybe something else hadn't already beat it to the job. Because something about Stan's voice fell neutral, as he began to speak. **_**Dead. **_

**But stopping him now was impossible.**

"**Like I said before, I'm not sure exactly **_**what **_**it was I saw. I know **_**some **_**of them were the guys who keep coming after us . . . but the man with the cigar was different."**

***************************************************************************

**The words in Stan's story started out slow and tentative, destined to drabble on until **_**at least **_**thirty minutes past recess. However, as the story wore on and the suspense grew to a consistency so thick you could cut it with a knife, his words moved on to a fast, steady drone that was just as hard to keep up with as it was to believe. Soon Kyle found that he was on the edge of his seat, whether he liked it or not . . . As were Wendy and a stunned, frozen Cartman, their eyes firmly petrified on Stan's face.**

**If this bothered him, he never showed it. He simply continued talking, like a guilty murder suspect reiterating the outrageous terms of his falsified, well-practiced alibi. His eyes never left the floor. His hands never expanded from tight, trembling fists, pressed firmly into his crotch in a way Kyle suspected was largely uncomfortable. At first, these strange behaviors were enough to be alarming. However, as Stan's story wore on to the tragic, climactic point he'd been trying (and failing) to make all afternoon, Kyle realized the actions were nothing but a sad attempt by his best friend to keep some of his wits. **

"**I looked at him, tried to hurt him . .. . But it didn't work like it normally does. It just **_**pushed **_**him, you guys," He said tiredly, a storm cloud passing thickly over his brow. It was at that moment in the story that Kyle realized Stan wasn't just **_**telling **_**it, but **_**reliving **_**it, as well; reliving it in a violent, vivid way that none of the others could hope to witness. It brought a crushing pity to his heart, almost the very same emotion that had dominated as Stan had told the story of his brutal, abusive capture. Of how the man he deemed 'Bitchy'-- no doubt a clever description of a voice much like those of the creeps Kyle had witnessed on Friday night-- had seized him by the collar like a cat reprimanding her kitten, and beaten him senseless until they reached their destination.**

"**I'm not sure **_**where **_**they took me. The son of a bitch had me helpless-- I couldn't see a thing. I only know that he took me to the man. The man with the cigar."**

**After saying this, Stan had looked up. His eyes, so piercing and dangerous before, now appeared just a touch louder with intensity. They seemed to be **_**blazing **_**within his face, flickering from beneath a deep stripe of shadow that parted his body. **

"**That's when I murdered him." It was deathly silent for a moment, not Kyle nor Wendy nor (surprisingly) Cartman daring to say a thing. Because talking, of course, might break the mood . . . And having Stan close up after having come so far seemed brutal. **_**Tragic. **_**The only thing which dared to change **_**at all **_**was Wendy's hand, which crept from Stan's knee to gently cover her round, surprised mouth. **

**After looking blankly into the distance for a few seconds, into the declining rushes of classmates pouring into the school from their thirty minutes of blissful recess, he dipped his head and continued. His voice gained a little more speed this time around, a little more **_**Stan . . . **_**but still not the full-figured, well-rounded leader of twenty-four hours ago.**

"**I thought the man with the cigar was going to kill me, but he didn't. He acted like he was, at first, when I tried to throw him and it . . . Didn't work," He said sheepishly, his words trailing at the end as if he were ashamed. Kyle figured that, for some strange reason that only existed in his best friend's head, maybe he **_**was **_**a bit ashamed. And that was okay. After he got the words all out, **_**then **_**would be the time for emotional counseling. The first step was admitting it, right?**

"**But he insisted I sit down, instead. I was a little suspicious, but I did it anyway . . . And that's when I noticed the pictures."**

**Pictures. **_**Five **_**pictures. Five pictures that took Stan no less than five seconds to describe, but that became the most understandable detail about the whole messed-up story. The instant he spoke the word, the word 'pictures', Kyle somehow knew automatically what he was talking about. He knew he was talking about five different pictures of five very different boys, that carried with them a more ominous meaning than just a casual school photograph. **

_**Our pictures, **_**He thought levelly, a little surprised at how calmly the thought flowed through his mind. But Kenny had already warned him, hadn't he? Somehow it seemed like old news. **_**Our pictures. The son of a bitch has pictures of **_**every one of us, **_**and that's why we can't catch a fucking break. That's why we can't spend one night alone without some **_**lunatic **_**bursting in and trying to butcher us alive.**_

"**Kenny's picture had holes in it," Stan said, half-way confirming what Kyle already knew. He said it in a quiet, slightly wavering manner, his brows knitting lightly over his eyes as if processing something fairly confusing. It was not a good look for the boy who had previously been brave enough to dash head-on into danger. He looked like the little boy it was sometimes hard to believe he actually was, with misty eyes and trembling hands and skin so white you could almost see through it.**

"**He wouldn't tell me where he was at, but I **_**know **_**that he has Kenny. I just **_**know **_**it. He told me that he had talked to him, and he was **_**teasing **_**me with that picture he had of him, **_**provoking **_**me with it . . ."**

"**Well why didn't you blast the hell out of him, Stan?" Cartman asked sharply, speaking for the first time in at least the last ten minutes. "I've felt it before. Remember? I'm sure if you were mad enough, you could have knocked his ass all the way back to--"**

"**But I **_**couldn't!**_** I-I tried before . . . And I **_**couldn't!" **_**Stan exclaimed, his voice growing louder with his insistence. Kyle actually felt himself jerk a little at this, along with Wendy, who looked so horribly distraught that the world could have been ending and he wouldn't have known the difference. He took the moment to let himself feel a brief stick of pity for her. Sure, she'd went along with Stan and let him keep such a drastic secret . . . But she never could have expected **_**this. Nobody **_**ever could have.**

_**Not even me, **_**Kyle thought sadly, thinking back on that unfortunate day two months before.**

"**And it's not even the picture of Kenny that **_**mattered," **_**Stan continued, his voice once again strong and self-assured.**_** "**_**He told me he was still **_**alive, **_**and I have every reason to believe that he was telling the truth. He never came out and said it, but I think he's been **_**using **_**him. Using him for information."**

**Kyle felt his heart give a heady leap in his chest. Kenny's words replayed themselves powerfully in the center of his head, blasting into his ears as if by way of megaphone.**

_**You have to listen to me, Kyle. You have to be **_**careful, **_**okay? This son of a bitch keeps drilling me for information about you, and the stuff I see him doing when he finds out what he wants isn't good . . .**_

**Words surged into the back of his throat, trying like hell to break free and make him speak. He held them back . . . But they left a harsh burning inside of his chest.**

"**My God. You must have been so scared," Wendy said softly, looking intently up into Stan's face. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her hands two loose fists at the base of her throat. An eerie paleness had crept into her face, save for two bright red circles high on the apples of her cheeks. "I can't . . . I can't even **_**imagine **_**how afraid you must have been. All alone."**

**Stan's eyes averted from the sludge for a moment, and fixed briefly upon her. Something passed through them for a solitary moment, something kind and cheery and very much **_**Stan . . . **_**but it didn't last as long as Kyle would have liked to see it. Mere seconds later and he was serious-Stan again, the one that would avoid hurting you if he absolutely could but would, if the situation called for it, drive you into a wall without batting an eye.**

"**Not really. Not **_**then**_**, at least," He said to her, smiling a little in a way that chilled Kyle to the core. Was that the way he'd smiled when he'd murdered Bitchy? When he'd fired him into the wall, and turned him into nothing more than a gore-streaked pancake? "I know that Kenny needs our help, but it's hard to be really worried about him. You guys know how he is. I worry about my **_**dad **_**more than I worry about him." "Well, that goes without saying," Cartman said bitterly, his gaze still glued to the ground.**

**Stan shot him an odd, half-way smiling look-- the kind that said he wasn't quite sure how to take that remark-- and then he turned back toward Wendy and his best friend, just enough of the smile still present to make Kyle feel like things might turn out okay. Sure, the smile had seemed sinister before . . . But as recess wore down and their time together grew short, a little of the stress seemed to be leaving. And that was good, he supposed. If Stan walked into Garrison's classroom looking even a **_**fraction **_**like he had two minutes ago, the event of being sent straight to the nurse was near-certainty.**

"**I didn't get scared until he threatened you, Kyle," He said softly, the smile still gently curving his lips. Something about it made Kyle uncomfortable, and he might have looked away . . . But this was the first time all day Stan's eyes had held his own. Looking down seemed, somehow, like a rude slap in the face. "That's when I really realized things were serious. That they had to end." "But why?" Kyle felt himself asking before he could control the words. "I don't understand. What led from Kenny to me? And why . . . Why am **_**I **_**in the middle of this at all?! What did I--"**

_**What the hell did I ever do?! **_**He started to shout, but stopped himself in the middle. Sometimes it was a little hard to remember that, even though everything seemed terrible, Stan and Cartman were going through the very same shit. He wasn't the only one being tracked down. He wasn't the only one being stripped of his childhood, and thrown into a place he had never once asked for.**

_**And I'm not the only one who can take a human life, **_**He thought sadly, pulling his knees up to his chest. **

**He let the silence settle over them for just a second longer, let it drape hellishly over their bodies like a cold, damp sheet. It seemed somehow appropriate in this setting; in a place where fear and love and pure taintless hatred could mingle together and act as one. If someone had told him he'd be here three months ago, he'd have told them they were crazy. If someone had told him he'd be **_**here, **_**sitting next to Eric Cartman and ready to trust in everything that he said, he'd have called them a liar.**

**But as he sat here now, processing these thoughts, he knew for a fact there was no denying. Every eye in the **_**room **_**was on him now, including the dull, malicious ones of Eric Cartman. If **_**anything **_**proved the impossible, it was the fatass's willingness to listen to him.**

_**Not to mention Stan, **_**He thought half-heartedly, finally finding the courage to look back up at his friends again. **_**His moods have been flip-flopping around worse than my mom's. It's not like him at all.**_

**After a few more seconds of looking at the ground and thinking until his brain felt roughly like two pounds of sludge, the eyes burning on his skin seemed a little too much. He opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to him, aware even as he asked it that Kenny had already given him the answer.**

"**It's because I'm the only one that can kill him, isn't it?" He asked bitterly, suddenly finding it easier to look at Stan's nose rather than eyes. He remembered hearing somewhere that this was a fine trick when you wanted it to appear like you were listening, but it didn't seem to be fooling Stan. He still looked concerned and wary. **

"**I have to blow him up, don't I? I have to use the thing that's scared the hell out of me for the past two months, and everyone has to depend on me to do it?" **

**Stan said nothing in the affirmative. Only chewed vivaciously on his already swollen bottom lip, in a way that gave a sickeningly strong resemblance to his father. In a way that, rather Stan said so or not, told Kyle everything that he needed to know.**

**The answer was **_**yes.**_

**As if he'd ever expected otherwise.**

**He gave a husky, exasperated sigh, and clutched his knees even tighter into his bony chest. It had gotten a little bit more so since the beginning of this ordeal. He took the time to thank his lucky stars that his mother hadn't noticed this**__**little tidbit, because if she had, he had a very good feeling he would be in a mental asylum by now.**

**After making sure that his voice wouldn't come out shaking-- which didn't take long at all, considering the circumstances-- he darted his eyes into the snow and half-smiled. It brought sharp pains to the hinges of his jaw, as if he'd been sucking on something sour.**

"**Okay. **_**Swell. **_**I guess it matches what they say about life, right? It's ironic up until it bites you in the ass?" **

**Wendy gave a high-pitched, screamy laugh. It was over exaggerated and obviously fake**_**, **_**but it was enough just to hear her do something other than gasp or talk about how **_**in trouble **_**they were going to be. Stan grinned, showing some indication that he was at least **_**half-way **_**amused . . . And Cartman, of course, continued staring at the ground as if it had sprouted twirling daisies, refusing to acknowledge anything save for mention of Kenny. Looking at the asshole before had made Kyle's blood begin to boil. Now, he just felt **_**bad. **_

"**Yeah. I guess that's true," Stan replied, his voice broken up by soft, tentative titters. It made Kyle feel good to hear them, even if they **_**were **_**just a little bit weak-- because hearing his best friend laugh at **_**all **_**after the horrible things he'd witnessed yesterday evening was a Godsend. Thinking back on the things he had just told them, Kyle was **_**sure **_**he wouldn't have been able to bounce back so quickly. Being picked up by three sadistic assholes, tortured beyond reason, and thrust into the grip of a man who wanted you dead more than anything else in the world? Shit, the fact that he had been **_**astral **_**didn't matter one bit. The murderous glint in the man with the cigar's eyes would have shined just as brightly regardless.**

_**Speaking of this 'man with cigar', who the hell **_**is **_**he? **_**He pondered languidly, touching a mitten to his chin. In the numb of the cold, the feeling of the cotton against his skin seemed nothing but the brush of the ghost. **_**I know he wants me DEAD, but that doesn't help much. I sort of knew that before.**_

"**So, do you have any idea what we're going to do from here?" He asked through his thoughts, still studying an interesting looking pile of sludge beside him. "I know jumping into action is probably the last thing you feel like doing, but I--"**

"**Stanley! Kyle! Eric! Wendy! Why the hell aren't you in my classroom?"**

**In a way that was nearly comical, all four heads turned in easy unison. There was a deflated 'shit' from beneath Stan's breath, a defeated gasp from Wendy . . . And then Kyle was staring straight at the short, balding spitfire that was his fourth-grade teacher, and trying to still a heart that was suddenly beating **_**much **_**too fast.**

**He had seen Garrison looking this angry before, but perhaps not ever this **_**old. **_**He supposed two different sex-change operations would give a man a haggard look, but it had never been like **_**this. **_**Never this **_**evident. **_**His paunch pushed heavily against the silk of his shirt, forcing gaps between the material and threatening to burst the buttons. His face looked not just wrinkled, but **_**gray, **_**if such a thing were possible.**

_**Me, Stan, Cartman, Wendy . . . Hell, why **_**not **_**Mr. Garrison? **_**Kyle thought, even the thought of getting in trouble not destroying his sudden need to be witty. And why not? When everything else was busy nose-diving into the ground, it was sometimes best to use the resources one already had as an umbrella.**

"**You're trying to skip out on class, aren't you? You little **_**bastards! **_**Get the hell back in there!"**

**Garrison began trudging forward in the snow, his shoes spraying up flurries of the light, brilliant powder. Kyle took the few precious minutes it would require for Garrison to reach them to turn to Stan, his mind suddenly brimming with something he hadn't thought before to ask. Kenny had taken the time to warn him about it, so he supposed it was important enough . . . It was just that, through worrying about all the **_**other **_**things he'd found out today, the issue had gone temporarily forgotten. So, it was on him to kill the oh-so-ominous 'Man with the cigar'. It sucked shit, and would no doubt be enough to set off the dreaded nightmares all over again, but he refused to let it touch his mind just yet. Not while he was **_**here.**_

**Because if things went as bad as he thought they might, the nurse wouldn't have a bed big enough to contain him. **

"**Hey. Dude," He said quietly to Stan, gaining his feet along with the others. No use fighting Garrison on this; if they didn't get up, he'd do it for them. Likely not in a pleasant way, at that. "Is it okay if I come home with you after school today? I was thinking I could spend the night, too. So we have time to talk about . . . Things."**

**A sharp look of dread crossed through Stan's eyes. Kyle wasn't sure if his best friend was thinking these 'things' consisted of their fiery confrontation of last night or not, but either way it didn't matter. It was being **_**together **_**that mattered. Not **_**being alone. **_**Honoring Kenny's premonition, whether it scared the hell out of him or not . . . Because if there was any friend that deserved to be listened to, it was Kenny McCormick. Especially after the many warnings that they, quite frankly, owed their lives to him for.**

**Warnings like the one before **_**Friday night, **_**for a start.**

"**Dude, aren't you grounded?" Stan asked skeptically, his face illuminating with light as he ducked from beneath the monkey bars. Kyle ducked with him, and was suddenly awash in a blinding blanket of warm, glowing sunlight. "I'm sure my parents won't mind if you come, but your mom will butcher you ah--"**

"**Don't worry about her," Kyle intercepted, trying to cut off a drop of guilt that worked its way toward his heart like a potent venom. "I'll call her when we get there."**

**Stan blinked once, obviously confused. "Oh. Okay." "You should invite Wendy, too. Oh, and Butters, if he's out of the hospital by then. And, what the hell, why not invite Cartman too? I'm sure he wouldn't mind being there to crash another party." Stan nodded lightly, that stricken look of panic washing delicately from his features. It must have left after he realized that Kyle wasn't coming over simply to bitch him out some more, and that made him feel just slightly wretched . . . But, perhaps more than that, it made him feel **_**satisfied. **_**Stan knew that he was unhappy with him, and understood that it wasn't just going to go away. The fact that his best friend knew these emotions were still present, even buried beneath ten-foot-thick layer of worries and useless hang-ups, touched his heart in a way that made him feel like crying.**

"**Okay, dude. I'm on it," Stan said briskly, after passing through another short, confused silence. He let another one pass, this one shorter and somehow more static than the other. "But I really wish you'd tell me what you're planning. It's not like you to ignore your parents. Dude, I don't think you've done it **_**once **_**since I've known you." **

_**No, **_**Kyle thought, looking back briefly on his relationship with them. Looking back at his mother, who used to tuck him into bed every night with a happily-ever-after bedtime story and a wet, popping kiss. Looking back on his father, who **_**not two weeks ago **_**used to chase him around the house with that painfully scratchy beard, and tickle him until he was fairly certain he had wet his pants.**

_**No. I haven't, have I? **_**He thought miserably, thickly blinking his eyes as he passed from the brightness of the outdoors to the flickering, dimming lights of South Park Elementary. **_**They're going to be so mad. So . . . Disappointed.**_

**He needed only think about Kenny to put these thoughts at a temporary bay. As much as he needed their love, and as much as they wanted to see him home, he figured his protection formed the higher standard. And though they could never know **_**why **_**he was doing this, though they could never understand the true nature of his defiance . . .**

**In the end, it would turn out to be worth it.**

**They reached the classroom door in a group, pausing briefly outside it to allow Garrison a moment to shout out his rage. After he was finished with his fast and colorful rant he turned around and angrily marched inside the door, giving Kyle one last moment to confer with Stan. Giving him one last moment to, whether he liked it or not, listen to Kenny's premonition and accept that he was in danger. **

**He turned to his best friend. Stan was dazed and slightly smiling in the aftermath of Garrison's tounge-lashing, his cheeks flushed a faint but powerful red. **

"**Damn," He said simply, speaking more to Wendy than to anyone else. Kyle had a feeling she was the reason for his sudden onset blush, but taking the time to care seemed a disgusting, inexcusable outrage. "I guess the whole world's out to get us, huh?"**

**To this, Kyle was only able to think one thing.**

_**Dude, you have no idea. **_

**_________________________________________________________________________________**

**Okay, here it is again-- SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. And I understand it wasn't the most INTERESTING chapter out of the bunch, but I sat around for days and days trying to make this work, and this is what I come up with. Don't fret though, my readers. The next will be pure win. *smile***

**Okay, so what's going to happen next? To tell you the truth, it will probably be a while . . . Because I HAVE NO IDEA. I am running through about three different possibilities in my head, right now, and I can't tell you for sure which one will end up typed out for your reading pleasure. Whichever it may be, though . .. I hope you like it.**

**Okay, so I've got nothing more to say! Until next time, have a good time, and remember that we're only alive once! Take advantage! Do something crazy! (If it's legal, of course.)**

**See ya!**

**-Aub**


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